The Black Prince
by TheHatMan98
Summary: Rickard, of House Baratheon, Prince of the Iron Throne and of Westeros, sees his country collapsing and the strings of duty pull him into the Game of Thrones he finds him self beset on all sides, with friends in few places, and the storms of civil war looming. (Re-write of 'The Lion with Antlers')
1. GOT: Rickard 1

**Rickard**

It's wet. Rain is beating itself against all of the windows of the Red Keep. It had come out of nowhere, the sudden shift in whether, and is unseasonable. Or at least that is what Grand Maester Pycelle has being assuring the court for the past week, but even so, his nerves are put on end by it.

In his bones, he can feel something is about to happen. From toes and temple, he can feel the chill in his bone, and it is far more than the cold. In the book of the Crone, we are assured that sudden shakings in the weather are meant to be shown as a sign of warning: to sailors and to travellers and to fishermen. But the book of the Maid also tells us that sudden rain is a sign for future mothers to take heart, as well as a sign of good harvests to come.

He steps into the royal sept behind the crescendo of a crack of thunder, his face lighting up in the burst of light. His skin is pale, but his face is darkened by the kind of beard only a man of six-and-ten can grow, and short black hair, like bristles on his head.

Shaking off the rain from his cloak, he walks forward into the holy space and goes straight toward the shrines, looking around in apprehension. He hates this Sept. It's bleak and quiet and empty, and at all the times of day for it to be empty, now it should not be. Evening prayers are sacred. They are what binds the world together. They are what releases us of what keeps us awake at night and what keep the morning pleasant and happy and warm. Perhaps therefore the reason this Castle is so forsaken. Or at least this is what he would like to think, but he knows that the Gods abandoned this place long ago.

Removing his cloak, he sets it on the floor in front of a shrine: it's the Father Above, set to pass his judgment. Around his neck, he has a number of amulets and holy medals. He takes the one bearing the Father and clutches it close to his face as he says his usual prayers: forgiveness for today's sins; to judge fairly those who have done him wrong; and to ensure that his family remains protected from those who would wrong them. Finally, he takes one of the few candles which have been lit by the Septon which attends the shrines, and lights fresh candles for each of his prayers.

After the Father, he shifts around to the statue of the Mother, who is smiling ready to offer love and protection on the virtuous. He takes another medal and sets about his prayers again: that his loved ones are safeguarded through tomorrow's troubles; that the weak are kept from harm; that he may remain worthy of those who love him. Again, lighting a candle for each prayer his says. He does this for each God, offering his prayers and clutching an amulet of the idol in question and lighting a candle for each prayer he says. Only the Stranger is left alone, to whom he stares harshly at, his blue eyes piercing into the hooded figure, before saying a single prayer for it to stay away.

Done: he retrieves his cloak and makes for the door, but stops seeing someone else entering the Sept. Some instinct seizes his body, and a hand ghosts across his hip for his sword but clasps nothing but his own fist. Through the bleakness, he can see the figure smiling, and eases his guard, bowing.

"Princess? Have you come to say your prayers?" He asks, as she approaches.

She nods, shaking off her own cloak of orange silk. "Forgive me, my Prince, but no. I am come here to deliver a message."

"Oh." He says flatly, suppressing his grin. "And here I thought that you had followed me here for something more interesting."

A loud laugh, but then she quiets herself with her fingers across her lips, looking at him like he's some oddity from across the Narrow Sea. "You think I need to follow you to know where you'd be? I can read you like a book, Sweet Rickard, I thought you knew that."

His turn to laugh. "Princess, you wound me. I at least hope that other members of the court do not find me so transparent."

A pause.

In it, he notices that they've advanced on one another, which surprises him. He's close enough to see the widening of her pupils: black, narrow and shining, like a predator. She moves to speak again, but he cuts her off.

"The message, Princess."

Her eyes draw half closed, and sharpen like daggers. "Must you call me 'Princess', Rickard? When we have been friends for so long? Am I no more than a Princess to you?"

"It is your title," he points out, amiable enough, as if it might diffuse her. "And of course, you are not just a Princess to me, Arianne. It's just…"

"What?" The air sparks around them.

He sighs. "We are not free to do as we wish. To choose what we do. I am not a ploughboy, and you are not a baker's daughter. You are the woman who must rule the South; rule all of Dorne, one day."

She snorts, says something about her inheritance being a lie that is only so because no one acknowledges it, trying to cut into him, but he presses on. "And I am bound to serve and do my duty by my father and brother." My mother and sister, my family and the Crown." These are the rules of the life they were born into, and if they do not understand the rules of it then they must learn or forfeit.

"You speak as if I want to trade cloaks. As if I'm asking for pledges and witnesses and contracts."

"What then? A haystack on warm nights?"

"Why not? Neither you nor I are strangers to the idea."

"Seven Above, woman!" He shouts, because he knows too well how serious she is about this. "You think we would get away with it? When we are found out, my mother shall have us both thrown out of this castle on our noses. Your father shall have the smallfolk cart you off to the whorehouse, and I'll be sent by mine own father to the Night's Watch and have my manhood sliced off!" He is pacing round the Sept, the heels of his boots clacking on the marble floor, as she just stares at him wandering the room exacerbated.

"You and I both know that would never happen, because the day your mother lets any harm come to one of her children is the day it snows in Dorne."

His fist strikes at a wall. "You don't know her, Arianne. Them. My _family._ They would _kill_ you!"

"Ha!" She laughs. She dares to laugh over this. Body of Baelor, how can she be laughing, he thinks. "They wouldn't dare."

"Don't be stupid!" He snaps. "Think of your own aunt!"

Ah, now he's done it. She realises the sense he is talking, but it stabs at her heart and he can see it written all over her face. "Forgive me, Arianne." And he goes to her, wraps his arms round her and, gods forgive him, she lets out a sob.

His voice shakes as he speaks. "I know why you want this so badly, Arianne, and if it were in my power I would give what you want. Not only us, but your heirdom. I'd give you Dorne back. And make sure that you lived the rest of your life happily, but I can't… I just… can't."

He pulls away from her, only slightly, to speak more professional words. "If I were your… no…" he reassembles his phrasing, "if I were to advise you, I'd say go find a different husband. One from the South. A Tarly, maybe. Lord Randyll has two sons as I recall."

She sniffs, and can see strait through him. "Go and find Willas Tyrell, you mean."

"Willas is my friend. If there is any man in Westeros who can get you what you want, it is him."

As if he's going to whip her, Arianne turns her back on him. "Willas Tyrell will never wed me."

Her dress has almost no back to it. He can see the smoothness of her skin, without blemish or scar, dark and taut like a bowstring. He sighs, "Let's not act like children, Arianne, please."

"I'm not. It's the truth! He would never marry me, not with you in the picture."

"What do you mean?"

Again, she laughs. To mock him this time. "I'm saying that he looks after your interests better than you do."

A shrug. "He's my friend."

"And wants what is best for you?"

"I suppose…"

"Then why deny yourself this!? What he would want for you? It seems like madness."

"Mother's Mercy, we're just going to keep going in circles, aren't we?"

"No," she insists, adamant. Marching forward as though she were meaning to slap him, he even goes as far as to grab each of her arms and pin them to her side. Yet she loses no determination. "You are blinded by fear. Fear and a self-imposed set of rules that aren't worth a coin to anyone else. What more to your life is there, Rick? Will you condemn yourself to be the tail to your families' comet?"

"First circles, now bloody metaphors. Gods give me strength, Arianne, this isn't about me. Or you. It's about doing what you're born into, what your last name is, who's blood you have flowing through your veins. It's…" And then he stops.

All he is doing now is repeating himself, for his own benefit and not her own. Instead he says, "It's late. And you haven't delivered your message yet." She gives him a look, a frown and he knows that she is just going to carry on the argument. "We'll carry on this later. An event of your choosing, again."

There is a shimmer in her eyes, like she's just heard the most wonderful news. "Dinner. Tonight."

"No, not tonight I have other plans for tonight. Tomorrow or the day after, fine. Just not tonight."

"You up to something?"

He grins, "What would come of me if I told you all my secrets? You'd have nothing to keep you from getting bored, I imagine."

There's a sharpness in her eyes, and her grin that makes him shudder. "Don't flatter yourself." Sweet Mother, we're flirting! "Very well, tomorrow night for dinner in my chambers."

"Good."

She's turning to leave, so he feels forced to prompt her about the message. "Oh, your mother wishes to see you."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

A shrug. "Your meeting with the Small Council on the morrow? Your meeting with your Lannister uncle yesterday?"

"Ah," He's learnt to distinguish his uncle from one another by the way people describe them. She means Ser Kevan Lannister, his granduncle, sent to the capital by the old lion, Lord Tywin, to petition the King and to report on the status of the Lannisters in King's Landing. There's no point asking how she knows about these meetings, so instead, "And how did she come to send you?"

Arianne evades his question, as is her nature, and urges him go and see his mother instead of standing there bartering with her over the information. He's wise enough to take the advice and pardons himself and thanks the Princess for delivering her message. He's walking out, but stops at the door. Part of him knows that he should keep walking without looking back, but his feet stop him, and his eyes turn to follow her…

* * *

His mother is waiting for him in her audience chamber. She sits on a dais, surrounded by her ladies in waiting, sewing or pretending to. Myrcella, his sister, is here too, is the first to clap eyes on him. Smiling she runs to him, squealing as grabbed her by the waist and spun her round till she was doubling over with dizziness and laughter. Setting his sister back on her feet, he approaches his mother, smiling back at her.

Extending a hand for her son, Rickard climbs the dais and takes it, kisses her fingers and then her cheek, before taking a standing position before the platform, with Myrcella hanging off his arm. He tries to look his most innocent and humble, stood before her, but Myrcella makes it difficult, as does the fact that in spite the dais, he is still taller than his mother by an inch.

Queen Cersei smiles at her second son, but her lips remain tight and a menacing look glimmers in her gold speckled eyes. "Rickard," she acknowledges him with. And he humbly bows his head in return, murmuring, "Your Grace".

With a snap of her fingers, the Queen's ladies begin to file out of the room. All but Myrcella, who looks adamant to stay, but Cersei dismisses by saying, "Myrcella, sweetling, wait outside. You will see your brother after I have spoken with him."

She looks up at him, and tugs on his arm, as if calling him to arms for her. But he just grins and winks at her, before she turns in a huff to stalk out of the chamber, the guards closing the doors behind her.

"Tyrek said you wanted to see me."

"Did he?" Eyes narrowed, hands clenched on the arms of her chair, poised like a lion set to lunge straight at him.

"Yes," he shifts the weight of his feet to rock back and forth on his heels and toes. His Mother is always hunting a new skirmish with someone in their family, those who displease her most of all are her favourites. Her second son is called for often.

"It was Lancel I sent to bring you."

He shrugs. "And?"

She bristles like a startled hedgehog. Cersei Lannister is forever prickly, with those who do her curtsy, those who don't, with those who love her, and those who despise her. "And he was meant to bring you back himself."

"Well, there's cousin Lancel for you. His arse and elbow are one in the same to him."

An eyebrow is raised, disapproving. "Your cousin Lancel does his duties well. Which is…"

"Which is more than can be said for me, yes, Mother, so on and so. Is there a reason you sent for me? I've better things to do than be belittled by you."

"Oh?" she stands, snarling. "Because you spend your time so productively, don't you?"

Clenching a fist, he barks, "That is hardly my fault."

"Then whose fault, is it? No one forces you to go galivanting across the city at night, getting drunk and filling your days with frivolity…"

"And do you know why, Mother? Because I've nothing else to do with my life. I've begged and begged you and Father and Jon Arryn to give me a job – something to do – but every time I find something, it is mysteriously shut down or given to someone else. And why might that be, Mother? Hmm?"

She shuffles her feet, looks away from him, and to the floor, shaking her head. "I will not have this conversation."

"Then what conversation will we have instead, Your Grace?" His courtesy is like a slap to her face. It shakes her awake, and then she is back to her bristling quarrelling self again.

"Your Uncle Kevan spoke with you this morning, did he not? What was it you discussed?"

"What? A Great Uncle, showing concern for his Great Nephew?" He smiles. "What malice could there be in that?"

"Do you think me so naïve?"

"No, but I'm beginning to wonder if you're so paranoid." He stares at her. Biting at the corner of her lip, hands clenching her sleeves so tightly that her nails are poking through the fabric. He sighs, "He was delivering a message from my Grandfather."

Her eyes light up darting all across his form, as if Kevan had written the words across his tunic's front. "Message? What message?"

"I don't believe that's your business."

She's on her feet now. Ready to lunge. "But…"

"But nothing. What was said is between myself, Uncle Kevan and Grandfather."

He's drifted into range and striking distance. "I have a right to know."

"You have a mouth that won't stop."

Once more, he's done it. His Mother's arm darts out, reaching far and wide, like the Mother Above. It sends him head first through his memory, back and back through the years, to when he was so small and fragile, before he knew Arianne or Willas Tyrell or Tyrek or Lancel. Before Mycrella had been brought into creation, pink and squalling. When his entire world had been his Mother and him and Joffrey and the walls of his nursery. It's the only memory of his Father from before he was ten and twelve. Of his Mother screaming and clawing, and of his Father shouting, and of he and his brother's weeping.

Perhaps it's this memory which pulls his instinct away from him, strip away his impulses to strike back. Which humble him, and bring him to his knees before her feet.

"Forgive me," he whispers.

"What?"

Forgive me. He wants to say, forgive me and my cruelty. Forgive my bitterness and envy. Forgive my greed and weakness. Forgive me for being the son who is so like Robert Baratheon. And pray the Gods release me of these faults.

Her hand drops to his head and he stiffens. Her fingers trail along the back of his head, bowed to her to hide his face and shame, to the back of his neck where she grabs at the string of one of his medals and pulls. He dips his head further, allowing her to relive him of the holy token, and he glimpses which one she has taken and why it stood out to her mesmerised gaze so much. Through silence between them, he knows that she is turning it through her hands.

"You kept it?"

"Of course," His voice is cracked whisper

"After so long."

"Always."

She rests her hand back on his head for a moment, before it slips away once more, and she leaves the room with him alone.

Alone, and weeping.

* * *

The two figures came out of the blackness of night, shrouded in cloaks of dark velvet, hoods up around their faces to hide them. One was taller than the other by a good few inches and, despite the cloak hiding his body, was notably stockier as well. The other, shorter one had longer legs that could have outpaced the other, but kept alongside and in step with the taller, boots ringing off the cobble street floor.

From out of the eerie night mist, creeping in from the river and sea, little light could be gathered, the stars and moon blotted out by the clouds. They heard noises. Someone screaming a few streets away. Drunks singing. The Septons singing their prayers from Baelor's Great Sept. And even further away, from the river, splashing faint and erratic.

"You hear it?" Said the Short One.

"The Splashing? Aye." Replied the Taller. Had there been a light, you would have seen his teeth flashing in a grin. "And the Black Oak."

The other sniggered as well. "Gods, Rick, the whole bloody city hears that bloody pub." A sigh and more splashing. "What you suppose they're doing?"

"Mayhap they're drowning someone." Rickard answered.

"Not the boatmen, Dick," Laughed the Smaller, "I mean Thoros and the others."

"Don't call me Dick, Tyrek." Growled Rickard, before answering: "Drinking. Or counting their coppers. Depending on how much they made. Last I heard they were complaining that they were poor. That the roads have been without travellers to rob. More like than not, they've been looking for easy money."

Tyrek shrugged. "You heard about that party of Septons from Oldtown? They were held at sword point for half a day by a group of highwaymen."

"Mother's mercy! They'll be drunk as lords!"

They laughed loudly, the noise of it carrying far through the fog. And someone must have heard them, as splashing feet came toward them and a voice shouting: "Halt!" Each of them froze and ruffled their cloaks, the hilt of a sword peering out from beneath Rickard's and the glint of a knife from Tyrek's sleeve.

A pair of men of the City Watch appeared from the darkness, one with a spear thrust out at them and commanding, "Show your face!" and the other with an axe and torch, demanding their names.

This had not been the first time this had happened to them on one of their night walks. Calmly, they lowered their hoods and eased their weapons out of direct sight. Rickard took a step forward offering an outstretched hand that held two pieces of silver.

"You don't need our names. Understand? Now take this picture of my cousin and forget you saw us, will you?"

At first, they looked confused, as he expected them to, but once they saw the silver stags gleaming in the torch light their faces turned to grins. Each man took a coin, and held his tongue before walking back down the street from which Tyrek and Dick had come from.

Tyrek did that smile that made him look as confused as the two goldcloaks had done. "'A picture of my cousin?' That didn't look like a portrait of me."

"No, it didn't. Because I didn't mean you." Grinned Rickard, offering a third piece of silver. Tyrek took it and saw the silver stag that had been stamped onto the coin, before turning it over to see the image of Aerys Targaryen the Second of His Name, the Mad King, once King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

"Baelor's bastard! These were a find, Dick. Where d'you get them?"

"Dunno," Shrugged the taller one, running a hand through the shaggy black hair of his beard as he did so. "Came from the treasury with the rest of my allowance."

"I'm surprised it hasn't been called in." Noted Tyrek, twirling the coin between his fingers.

"Silver's still silver, Ty. Doesn't matter whose face is stamped on it. Come on, we're late enough as it stands."

Tyrek conceded the point, pocketed his cousin's money and went about their way, their hoods redrawn about their ears, to avoid risk of being spotted by someone more than a clueless guard. They each knew the risk being taken, by them each walking around King's Landing at night and so late. But they'd done it before and knew what to do and what not to do. Besides, the risk they run nowadays in King's Landing is not half so much as when they did it at Casterly Rock. Lord Tywin might well have skinned them alive had he caught his wards in such places. But he never did, catch them at least.

They stopped outside of a large wood building, with a thatch rook and a front that was well lit from the windows and the by the torches nailed to brackets that hung from the front, spilling the light of their fires out onto the street. Hanging by a post above the door was a painted sign that said The Wolf's Den and a black dog's head plastered onto the wood beneath the writing. Dick and Tyrek approached the door and knocked, as they listened to the sound of music and shouting and laughter that could be heard from outside the open window.

After the shuffling and unbolting of locks, the door was opened by the tavern's landlady: a portly, woman with fattened red cheeks with strands of grey hair coming loose from her white cap.

"Ah! Sers! You've come at last!" She clucks, ushering them inside, peeling their cloaks from their backs, the gloves from their fingers and pushing them inside to the roaring laughter and drunken howling. "Come in! Come in! Their lords have been at the ale a good few hours now. How they have shrieked for you both. Wanted to barrel up to the Castle and steal yous away. But I tells them no. The young masters shall be 'ere before long, and they didn't like that a bit."

"I can imagine." Tyrek snorted, fishing inside his pocket for the silver rarity. "More beer, my lady. As soon as it pleases."

The Old Woman curtsies and veers off to find the serving boys, while the two let them self into the main room of inn to be showered by a thunderous roar of drunken whooping, cheers, clapping and stamping.

Above them all the drunks crowding the rooms, one stood out more than all the rest, stood on top of a table in the centre was a fat, balding man in red and brown robes. He's the first to notice them and roars.

"GODS DAMN! Stand by the doors! What whoresons are these?" Grey hair and fat, the leap from the table to stand right before them does not seem to faze the anyone in the room. "One Prince Rickard, of the blood of Baratheon before us," he thunders, slapping Rickard's bearded cheek – and by the Seven it stings – before pulling on the whiskers as though he were sixteen months not sixteen years, "And one of those one thousand and one cousins of Lord Tywin Lannister. Lock the doors. All of faint heart, leave immediately! And may the Lord of Light preserve us!"

The Prince laughed. "There's more than one God, Thoros. And they abandoned you long ago."

Clutching at his chest, the fat man backed away, howling mockingly, "You hear! You hear! What shall become of Westeros when this one is King?"

As he said this, the drunks roared and began to stamp once more, but one rose above them and began to quiet them, to stop both Thoros or the two new comers from retorting to one another's teasing.

"Peace, you bastards! Are we here to talk, or to drink?!"

Another roar goes up and they are consumed by half a hundred drunks, singing, and shouting, but someone pulls on his collar and drags him out them orgy of strong drink and laughing, into a room with the door shut over, which muffles all the sound on the other side to a minutia of what it was before.

He sighs, "You know I was rather looking forward to getting drunk tonight?"

"Forgive me, my Prince," says his saviour, "but I thought it best given tomorrow."

"True." He sighs, "true enough." And he walks to a chair by the fire, shakes off his boots and props his feet on a stool. Then he waves at the seat opposite him and gesture through his yawn, 'Come and sit, my lord.'

Beric Dondarrion is Lord of Blackhaven and as handsome as the Prince's own Uncle, Ser Jaime, with red hair and as tall as the King Robert, who was once his liege lord, before the Rebellion which landed his Father the Iron Throne.

"How do you imagine tomorrow shall go then, my lord?"

The question, though it must have been expected still catches the Lightening Lord off guard. "Difficult to say, my prince," he says, unsure and thinking hard, "Our demands are just, all of Westeros shall acknowledge that."

He shrugs, "Acknowledge, yes. But that means nothing, if we don't have backing. Has the charter returned?"

"Yes, my prince."

The Lord of Blackhaven offers the roll parchment which he takes. "I can think of one or two more names that we may add by tomorrow. Your own seal is affixed?"

"Good," Rickard smiles, but then scratches his chin. "You know some may interpret this as treason."

"The very people we move against, ser." Offers Dondarrion, determined. "We are too numerous to be ignored, and too powerful to be crushed."

"The supporters of the Targaryens said the same thing, I imagine." And how many of their names are on this sheet of paper, I wonder. "Still, our movement is unknown to most."

"Most? Not all?" The Lightening Lord rises, concerned. "My Prince, who else knows? All that we sent the charter to signed. You think we have been betrayed?"

"No, nothing so sinister or deliberate. My Grandfather knows, and my Great Uncle Kevan."

"What? How?"

"My Father may have the Crown, and Jon Arryn may be the Hand of the King, but the true power behind Westeros comes from Casterly Rock."

"I see." Lord Beric's voice is dashed with shaken confidence. "And do we have the Old Lion's backing?"

Another shrug. "We have his sympathy, but not his support. At least not openly. He fears that I'm acting to rashly, to aggressive, though applauds our groups initiative. He would advise continued diplomacy and lobbying, things I've yet to prove myself in, in his eyes."

Lord Beric snorts in surprise. "You were his ward for 6 years?"

"Still, there is only so much you can teach a boy. Plus, I was three and ten when I left his charge and the Rock for Storm's End. I haven't seen him in all that time. That great old man, powerful and wise and…" He trails off. Yet out the corner of his eye can see the puzzled look on Dondarrion's face. "I'll hear no word said against Tywin Lannister, Beric. Not one. He maybe the Great Lion to most, or the Traitor to King Aerys, but not me. To me he's… grandfather."

He shakes his head, and tips it back sighing. "Get the old woman to throw a blanket over me. I'll sleep here tonight. I want to dream of being one and ten. Of feeding the gulls, and throwing myself from cliffs into the Sunset Sea. Yes."

Let me sleep. Let me dream.


	2. GOT: Kevan

**padfoot923** : I had first wanted to call him Richard, but I thought Rickard was better being the GOT equivalent and no one else as far as I can tell had used it before, and I'm quite sick of seeing people call their Steffon or Lyonel or some other Baratheon-esque name. As far as the story is concerned, there is he's named after no one in particular as far as Rickard goes.

* * *

 **Kevan**

His Great Nephew is back again, at his request, and expecting to be fed. It's not oft that you are allowed to take breakfast with a Prince, but this one he has known since his eighth year, and dinned with often. Dressed in his best, or rather what his cousin Tyrek has advised is best to wear when breaking one's fast with their Great Uncle. Besides that, he looks terrible, like a rope chewed by a dog, or the leavings from a plate of King Robert's. Bright eyes drooping with heavy bags beneath and the hairs of his brows knocked out of line where he's been rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Now, he looks around the table: at the other places set out for his other guests. The inquiry is simple and to the point, as you would expect from such a Prince of the blood. Kevan Lannister smiles, and says, "Your siblings, and uncles. Never fear."

"My Mother?"

Rickard Baratheon fears no one alive, except his Father and Grandfather, either of whom could strip away his Princedom, and throw him out on the street on his Princely nose. Yet, the urgency in his voice, and the jump in his cheek gives his Great Uncle cause to pause and question the fact.

"No," he answers, simply, "she is breaking her fast with your sister, and their ladies." There is a drop in the Prince's face. Perhaps he thought siblings meant both brothers and his sister. Maybe it is something else, because Gods alone know what a Baratheon may be thinking, however great a nephew he might be.

When he returned to the capital, two years ago, at the age of four and ten, the Prince thought this would be the beginning of the life he had been brought up to live, that it would be the making of him. However, it has only been the beginning of his troubles. Because he does have his trouble; the second in line to the Iron Throne, one of the premier nobles in Westeros, the greatest swordsman to come out of the Westerlands in twenty years has his rivals and ill-wishers, his defamers, and an older brother with which to compete. His life has not turned out as he would hope, and so he is disaffected with everything. King's Landing hasn't brought him the honours and acclaim he had in Casterly Rock, or Storm's End, or Highgarden. His Mother, the Queen, has taken them for herself and other kin, leaving the Prince supported by an allowance from the treasury, which is always being cut, so must write to his Grandfather, who subsidises him, for more money, and it cuts at his pride to be so destitute.

Add to this he thinks that the realm should not be guided, as it is presently, by Jon Arryn, who lets the King roam and whore and allows the Queen to wheedle away the King's influence for her own. As if it had been Cersei Lannister that sat the Iron Throne, not her husband: a woman cannot head anything, least of all the Realm, as every man in the Realm knows and lives in ignorance of. So, Rickard has been grumbling for the past year, that Westeros is failing: not mentioning his family in anything, but of the councillors and Jon Arryn. Of meagre harvests and the ruinous things he saw on his travels of Westeros with his Uncle Renly Baratheon.

But now that one of his relatives from Casterly Rock, that are not cut from lesser stock, are here, Rickard is vibrant and unusually affable to the ills which plague him, flanked by his smirking retainers and better cousins, chief among which, "Tyrek? Where is he?"

A pause. "Oh, Ty is still abed." Still in the brothel, he means, but its good of Rickard to keep the subject away from breakfast.

The Prince shoots a glance to the door. His brother has entered the room. Joffrey Baratheon, who for sake of simplicity and flattery, people call the Golden Prince, on account of his hair. Seven and ten, with curly hair, handsome, like his brother, yet that is where the similarities end, much like their uncles, the dwarf and the Kingsguard trailing in after the Golden Prince.

From Gold to Black: "Gods' teeth, Dick, you look ill." With relish and a sharp smile, "you look as if your skin will melt on to your platter. Out drinking last night, again? Myself, too! And all the worse for wear. Look at this!" Then he's pulling up a sleeve, and showing the whole room.

You'd think that it was humiliation that reduces Rickard Baratheon to the skin and bones existence his brother thinks he leads, and not drink. While they are eating, Joffery talks over his brother and interrupts him. He laughs at the holy medals and relics the Black Prince wears. At one point, he leans across the table toward him and says, "Come along now, Rickard. Eat your sausage. You're melting again."

"I am," Rick says, bored and gritting his teeth, "I don't know how you do it, Joff. Everything fleshed up in your clothes. A giant would eat you, for certain."

Leaning back, smirking, Joffery says, "Ah, a risk of life, you know."

Rickard rolls his eyes, and turns to his smallest uncle. "What's the gossip off the streets then, Uncle?"

Tyrion Lannister is a dwarf. His legs are short, stubby creatures – bent and misshapen. Besides this, he is ugly: forehead jutting out and sloping downward, each eye mismatched between black and Lannister green, and dirty blonde hair with a black lank running through it. More to that he lives a dog's life. Either drinking and whoring or reading and writing, Tyrion is an enigma to his Uncle Kevan, who could well surpass his father one day, yet does nothing to help his own case.

Now, uncle turns to nephew and says, "You, for one, Rick."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You're the talk of all the street taverns and brothels. Even the court whispers about you to one another. Asking one another about you. Interrogating everyone who is a supposed authority on you. I, for one, have never been so popular."

The Black Prince is grinning, "Really? Well, you're welcome." They are always laughing, these two. Closer to one another than either of their Fathers. After all, it was Tyrion who brought Rickard to the Rock, when he was but six, shorter than the dwarf and more timid than Kevan had ever known Tyrion to be at any age. "What do the people ask of me then, uncle?"

"They want to know what becomes of the women in your life."

Rickard's brow furrows. "What women? There are no women in my life." He cocks his head and shrugs. "Much to my own dismay."

Tyrion drains his glass. "The line of destitute women you leave. Have left, in fact, all across Westeros, nephew. Did you not know? That you have a procession of aggrieved young women."

A shrug. "This is news to me."

Another trouble with being Rickard Baratheon is that the crimes of others are yours also. This procession of aggrieved women is true of the boy's father, yet really who is to know the difference between one Baratheon and another, they're all the same. Not to mention this is the curse all sons must live with, being the shadow of their Father. To share the same crimes and sins. And it's even more dangerous for the son of a King.

House Baratheon lives on thin ice. Its few living members are always forced to reposition themselves. Every mishap and mistake on the part of King Robert and his council force them to, and the prospect of losing the Throne surely keeps them awake at night. Each error puts a glint in the eye of there every enemies. Each error may be their last. Each error may force the realm into revolt, may even topple House Baratheon forever. It's Robert Baratheon's own success that allows them to imagine so vividly.

Joffery leaves breakfast once his plate is cleared away. So too does Tommen, his escort and maester coming to take him away for his lessons in the maester's tower. Ser Jaime too excuses himself, it's his shift to guard the drawbridge to Maegor's Holdfast. There numbers dwindled down to three: Kevan, Rickard and Tyrion.

Even though he was silent for much of breakfast, Tyrion has been grinning until he is fit to burst, practically seething with questions, muscles in his and fingers cheeks jumping and buzzing around his eyes. "About last night, Rick? You had a word with the Princess, I hear?"

The Prince purses his lips, raises his eye brows, and leans back in his chair to slouch. He says, "I would've liked to go fishing today."

He, Kevan, turns to his nephew, "Princess, Tyrion?"

Grinning, the dwarf's mismatched eyes are full of mirth when they flick toward his uncle. "The Lady Arianne. Our Ambassador from Dorne." Kevan has seen her at court. Dornish to the core: cunning and sly and unnerving. There's far more to her than he thinks anyone realises, and if he had been King Robert, he would have sent the girl back home when she offered herself dignitary on behalf of her father.

Tyrion turns back to his own nephew, "You were seen in the Sept together, alone."

Rickard, amiable, ignoring the conversation: "Pity Harry asked to spar…"

"'What did you talk of', I wonder to myself."

"And I am to meet the Council, when it is session…"

"And then of course that argument with your mother."

The Prince freezes, petrified in time and place. It's not just that he's shocked, it's an inability to respond. Shutdown, locked in place, the only piece of Rickard Baratheon that moves is a slight shake in his right hand. A look on Tyrion's face, and even he has frozen, before he'd been teasing, amusing, and looking just as relaxed as his nephew. But now he realises he's pushed open some door behind which is his worse fear.

Slowly, Rickard re-joins them back at the table, reassembling his person one piece at a time. A dark look goes toward his little uncle, and he says, softly, absent of all ill feeling and drenched in politeness, "Mind your words, uncle." It's the indifference of his tone that cuts Tyrion hardest, calls him to pull back and bow his head. Then the Prince turns to his Great Uncle and begs his pardon.

"Harry will be expecting me. And I suspect Tyrek will have woken by now."

Once he goes, yet again, uncle turns to nephew to speak. He says, "You'd better tell me everything." And Tyrion looks as though he may just start praying again.

* * *

The Small Council is in session. Today is an audience day. Where once the King and his Hand would together hold meetings and petitions from the Smallfolk and those nobles who are visiting the Court with their most pressing issues, now the Hand of the King is alone, and his lack of strength and precedent dictates that he must also be guided by the unanimity of the Small Council. Jon Arryn would have had all these men underfoot once, but no longer. Strong as he is, the Lord of the Vale is failing. Broad shouldered still, but his back is hunching over, he's bald on top of his but for a few wisps of hair on his crown, and all but a few of his teeth have fallen out. And he leans to the left, where a double-edged longsword hangs from his belt, dragging him down like a ship's anchor.

He sits on the Iron Throne in King Robert's stead, and below him, at a long table sits the Small Council. It's an improvement on some of the Councils King Robert's predecessor had, however that is saying little.

Grand Maester Pycelle sits on the left of the Hand, eternal and never shifting; he has been seated on the Small Council for forty years, since the reign of Aegon the Fifth. He has seen the fall of House Targaryen, and the rise of Houses Lannister and Baratheon. He served the Small Council with King Robert's grandsire, Ormund Baratheon, who was Hand of the King to Jaehaerys the Second, and later with both of Rickard's grandfathers Tywin Lannister and Steffon Baratheon. Old as he is though, he still looks as though he will outlast the current Hand by a good many years.

On Jon Arryn's right sits the Master of Coin: Petyr Baelish, who men call Littlefinger, on account of his having lordship over the smallest piece of Lord Arryn's domain. Yet he has risen high up above his lowly birth to achieve much. First as the most preeminent money lender in the Vale, before climbing to the Small Council and King's Landing. Besides his money, he is powerless, and he's friendly enough, and eager to be easy and helpful and giving. But still, no man so talented has risen so high so quick without being poisonous, perhaps this is why Rickard wants him out the Council and packed off to the Vale in a box.

Renly Baratheon sits as Master of Laws, and beside Pycelle, and is one to look at and behold. For those who knew Robert before the Rebellion, it must be like looking into a window of the past, before life took its tole on the King. The young Lord of Storm's End is the perfect diplomat. He'd win as many battles with words as Robert would with his hammer. He's done well from his older brother's favour, being made Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, before being made Master of Laws and, up until his coming of age, being given guardianship over Prince Rickard, upon his leaving his grandfather's care. With his favour, he has done much and nothing. Storm's End remains the dominant power in the South, trumping both Dorne and the Reach in terms of arms and influence, though the latter may be far richer and prosperous and the former remains the venerable fortress of nature that only the North and the Stormlands can rival.

Beside his younger brother, Stannis Baratheon: tall, balding, hook-nosed and hawk-eyed. His face has a tightness to it like cured leather, and he has hollow cheeks, and thin, pale lips. He's suffered much, the middle of the Baratheon brothers: passed over for position in the Small Council and lordship of the Stormlands in favour of his brother, Renly, who is not as quick to criticise the King, or too difficult to be on the right side of. Stannis is a good drill master, and dutiful, but beyond that he is limited by honour and pride. Slights come easy to Lord Stannis, which he either brings on himself, imagines, or takes far too personally. Kevan remembers how after the Rebellion, Tywin counted his blessings that he was dealing with Jon Arryn and Robert, rather than Stannis.

Finally, the Spider is here, himself and un-noteworthy, as we should hope he'll be, yet never is.

Each one of them is timid in their dealings with the petitioners and troublemakers today, or at least less invigorated with their usual charisma. For they are all aware what is awaiting to meet and entreat with them. Six foot of strong armed and embittered Princeling is waiting outside the Throne Room's sealed bronze door, prowling, and pacing the antechamber, with a trail of eager younglings and lords in support, ready to kick in the doors and deal them new misery.

Yet, aside from the Small Council, most the rest of the Court are here to witness the new piece of theatre Prince Rickard will perform for them. Quavering, old Gyles Rosby is here; tall and red haired Robar Royce too; the foreign exile Jalabhar Xho, complete in bright extravagant feathers of his home land adorning his attire; Lady Tanda Stokeworth has her daughters in tow, including the half-witted Lollys; and Robert Baratheon's Stormlords, crowd together whispering, occasionally glancing at him and the Westerlords. For these have long been the two factions of Robert's court: the Stormlanders, who are always fighting to keep their influence and esteem in the realm from crumbling further than King Robert allowed before he gave Renly his old fiefdom, and then there are the Westerlanders, who remain here by right as guests of Cersei, as her agents, or as proclaimers of securing the rights of Lord Tywin are secured in the realm. He, Kevan, knows that Rickard has the support of many in these groups, but do they know that? And he wonders, if it will it survive today?

The procession of today's business goes on, but everyone is waiting for the blast of trumpet, and the announcement of Prince Rickard, and which whoever in his retinue have been called out to lay their demands before the Council. Each time the Throne Room doors open all eyes vanish from the Small Council or the petitioner before them and go toward it to see if it is the Prince. Alas, it is only ever another flock of Smallfolk or petty lord. Except one time, when the Dornish ambassador enters.

Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell, heir to the throne of Sunspear and her father's envoy to King Robert's court, though she is an eternal enigma to everyone. Kevan well knows the story of her arrival, of how she turned up out of the blue one day, with any talk of her being here on the business of Prince Doran, only that she had been travelling from Dorne through the Reach. She had planned to leave the city, but was beaten by her Father's letter proclaiming her the champion of Dornish interests in the capital, which she was no doubt flattered by. Yet the mysteriousness of the circumstances has won her no trust or friends of Dorne, least of all because she is Dornish in a Kingdom dominated by Lannisters and Stormlanders.

She keeps apart from most everyone, yet manages to draw several of their eyes, notably young Robar Royce. Perhaps by chance, she stands next to Kevan Lannister of all people, and remarkably strikes him in conversation. "The Prince is outside. And he is eager."

He catches sight of the door opening again. "And another Prince is inside. He too is eager."

Sure enough, Joffery has entered, smirking like a cat. He looks pleased with himself, or at least satisfied. And everyone is incredulous as he walks in. They had expected the other Prince to come before the Council, not the Crown Prince. But he does not go before the Council, he peels off, his dog, the Hound, Sandor Clegane following him, and settles himself beside his grand uncle to watch the spectacle soon to unfold.

Everyone around them curtsies as Joffery come toward him, and, "My Prince," he says, "Come to see the work of good government?"

His nephew snorts, "Ha! Come to Dick laughed out of here, more as like. I saw him outside, by the gods. No different than our nursery days. Playing King, still. Ha! Want that Father were here, he would break him. Smash him and his fantasies like glass. Or better yet Mother be here! I well remember how she would put him down. She'd drop him from her knee, tower above him and say, 'Now, now Rickard Baratheon, behave yourself, else I call for Nursey to put you to bed!' And he would ball and cry and pull on her skirts and go to bed whimpering. Would I remind him of it, to see his face?"

As delicately as he can, he suggests, "Were you to do it, Joffery, you'd as like regret it. He is not the boy he was."

Not since he came to the Rock. As a squire, all the boys under the roof of Casterly Rock yielded to Rickard Jason Tytos Ormund Baratheon, and none dared call him Dick, or Little Dick as he had been to the other squires and wards when he first arrived.

"Still," Joffery goes on, "If I were King…" But then he's cut off, for the heralds are opening the doors and announcing the main attraction.

"Rickard, of House Baratheon, Prince of the Iron Throne and of Westeros, Lord of the Crownlands, the Westerlands and the Stormlands!" is striding through the bronze doors into the Throne Room in an attire designed for maximum impact. A cloth of gold cloak, upon which is emblazoned the Crowned Stag of his Father, blows behind him in his strides, as his knee high heeled boots click and clack on the marble floor. He's brought a sword too, which he rests his left hand on as he walks, as if he were to draw it at any moment. His tunic is black, with golden threads, trimmings and cuffs, however over that he has a breast plate with a Baratheon stag and Lannister lion married to each other in gold, silver and black steel imprinted on his chest.

He's flanked by three retainers: Tyrek Lannister, in scarlet and gold, breast plate as well, but no sweeping cloak behind him, carrying a long, rolled up piece of parchment in one hand and another still by his side, and pulling on his cuff, sword being on the wrong side of him; Lord Beric Dondarrrion wears a black satin cloak decorated with stars, but is without breastplate or sword, because he dare risk being seen as too rebellious by his own liege lord, Renly; and, finally, "Harry!"

The Lord Hand has risen to his feet with surprising speed, starring awe struck at Harrold Hardyng, the Young Falcon, stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with the Prince Rickard. Lord Arryn had clearly not expected that the second in line to the Vale should happen to walk through the doors beside the disgruntled Prince. But anyone can see why: In his youth, Hardyng had been the agreed upon heir of the Vale, and raised as such, yet once Lysa Arryn delivered Lord Jon a son, the sickly child Robin Arryn, he has been disinherited, and so now Harrold Arryn is just Harry Hardyng, and he's eager to be anything but.

"My lord," the Young Falcon says, nodding curtly but doing no further curtsy. He's dressed as the Prince, with sword, cloak, and breast plate. Yet he uses sky-blue falcon soaring against a white moon, on a sky-blue field, instead of the black stag and golden field of Rickard.

The four men stand before the Throne, ardent and defiant, an outsider wouldn't be mistaken for thinking they were aiming to conduct a _coup d'état_. Lord Baelish starts clapping, "My word, what a show! To what do we owe such theatrics, dear prince?"

"Now, now, Baelish," Renly Baratheon pipes up, scolding. "We owe it them to show respect, as we would any other petitioner."

Lord Stannis scoffs, "Gods forbid Lord Baelsih should show any other petitioner respect. Or even his fellow council members, for that matter."

Petyr Baelish laughs, "My lord, respect is an attitude men adopt to people they pretend to like."

Stannis goes to rise again, but Lord Arryn speaks out first. "My Lords, enough. We have business." He shifts in his seat, straightens up, and addresses Rickard. "My Prince, you and…" his old, tired, blue eyes linger on him, and then flick to linger again on Hardyng, before flicking back to the Prince, "your retinue have come here to petition the Iron Throne, for what?"

Rickard speaks to the whole hall. He's never been on for making great speeches or grand displays, though he always enjoys watching one. He talks of our stunted realm, of its failing to go forward. How the laws are decaying across the King's peace, of squalor and immorality in all the realm's four corners. Rebellion and strife in the Dornish Marches. The dissolution of Septs and holy buildings, the largest debt in the history of the realm, which 'By the Gods,' he says, is still increasing, moment by moment.

When he starts talking about the poor, the richer lords in the room look as though Rickard's just knocked their castles' down. Some courtier tries to boom the Prince, but Hardyng peels away from Rickard to address the lordling in question: he remains silent. Still though, it's too much for the Small Council to swallow, from the looks on their face, when Rickard tell them rich men have a duty to the poor; that if you get fat, as the lords of Westeros do, on the labour of the Smallfolk, then you have a responsibility to the men forced off their land, the labourers without labour, ploughers without a field. Westeros has need of roads, forts and strongholds, harbours, bridges; Smallfolk have need of work. It's a stain on King Robert's name, that his people should have to beg for bread, when their honest labour could keep the Seven Kingdoms stronger. Is it possible, this simple thing?

Jon Arryn says: "No." And between them the Council argue that the responsibility is not theirs to create jobs and work. Are not these matters in the Gods' hands, and is poverty not part of the eternal design, Grand Maester Pycelle says. If rain falls for a year, and destroys all crops, there is reason for it; for the Gods know their business. Renly Baratheon says there is a time for everything, a time to starve, a time to thrive. Petyr Baelish tells Rickard that there are jobs enough already, and that it will cause rebellion, should the lords and rich men of the realm have to pay in order for them to put bread in the mouths of the workshy. And when the Prince says poverty provokes criminality, Stannis says: we have hangmen enough.

Harrold Hardyng is enraged. "You would all whip the beggars, sooner than provide for them. Gods damn you all! I never thought to see another King and Council, both turn their backs on the realm."

"Do not try and enrage the King, Harry." Warns Lord Arryn, "If he recalled the strength he once had, he'd find the poor work as gravediggers, for they'd never be workshy then."

"What consolation you give us, Goddamned hypocrites," Rickard growls, "Never has the realm been plagued by such self-seeking, empty headed bastards." A sound goes through everyone, like a half gasp half moan, everyone freezes. "You people never think higher than your own pockets, fortunately the rest of the realm is not so belligerent."

He motions to Tyrek, who steps forward and hands over to Rickard the role of parchment he'd been holding, who marches forward and places on the table before the Hand of the King. He then steps backward, turns on his heels and speaks to the courtiers, "We call for the dismissal of the Small Council! And the summoning of a Great Council of the whole realm, to ensure that the Seven Kingdoms are restored to good government." Many of his words are drowned out, the whole room is enraged. Rickard points at the parchment he laid before Jon Arryn, "Those are the names of all the Lord of Westeros who are with us!"

Over it all someone shouts, "Traitors!"

And Harry Hardyng comes bulling forward, "TRAITORS ARE PAID! We are making a sacrifice!" It's the lasting thing said before chaos breaks out.

* * *

In the end, concessions are attempted by Lord Arryn but Rickard refuses and insists on his Great Council. The meeting breaks down from there, and the amount of support Rickard's parchment offers forces Jon Arryn and the Council to consider them.

"Consider," he warns Rickard, when he pulls him away afterward for a small word, "not agreed to."

"I know, but if I think I was pushing my luck enough." He is beaming, shedding sun light. "They'll agree, I know it. I've outflanked them."

"I suppose, but be wary." He grabs his great nephew's arm and squeezes, "In the meantime, I must go back to Casterly Rock."

Rickard's face falls. "What? Why? Stay here, fight this cause." He urges, and Kevan pulls away from him.

"That is beyond my power and remit." But then reaches back out to Rickard. "You're doing well here, and I will go back to the Rock and fight your cause there."

His great nephew goes timid, suddenly. "Will he back me? Do you think? He's been urging me to stand on my own two feet, fight for a position deserving my talents, push myself. But I know this will hardly be what he thought I was doing."

Kevan smiles. "In the end, he'll back you because you're his kin, even if he disagrees with your method, message and means."

Rickard nods. "Give him my best, and everyone else."

"When Daven hears of this, he'll never stop making toasts to you. Gods go with you, Rickard."

"And Seven Blessings on you, Kevan."


	3. GOT: Arianne 1

**Machoking** **:** Yes, yes it does.

 **JaceMaddox** **:** Don't worry. They're not really used, and we'll get an explanation in the next chapter

* * *

 **Arianne**

"He fights like the devil." One of them was admiring.

"Rides like a peasant, though." Another added.

"Not in a joust," a third assures them. "In a joust, he rides like uncle." Which one? she wants to ask. One is a drunken dwarf, another Westeros' most famous living murderer and the others…

Her unspoken thoughts are interrupted by a gasp, and then, "He turns himself out beautifully. Pity his brother doesn't grace the tourney ground as much."

"Prince Joffery prefers fighting with his brother over a dinner table than a tourney ground."

That much is true, Arianne thinks turning her eyes away from the group of ladies she is regrettably apart of, and looking to watch the objects of their fascination. Normally on a tourney field, Rickard certainly is a thing to behold: a beacon of black and silver steel plate, darting, cutting, thrusting passed his opponents guard, rolling through the sand and mud, and skirting round them like paper in the wind.

But not today. The heavy and unseasonable rain that has beset them these past week or so has departed and the full weight of the sun at the peak of Summer is burning down on them. So, all the armour is gone, too hot to fight in, and any who can bring themselves to fight both the heat and someone else, brave the sun that blazes over the training yard to fight in thin shirts and trousers. Except Rickard who has taken his shirt off, and is attracting attention for it.

The women of the court have begun circling them yard like vultures. Clinging together in obscure positions to spectate the Prince and his companions, all mostly hidden from view of course and out of the sun. Arianne is not so modest, and has no quarrel with the heat. In Dorne it'll still be far hotter, even as Summer turns to Winter.

Another gasp: Rickard has taken a hit, his first of the current bout, and then Beric Dondarrion is calling a cease to entreat with the Prince. "My Prince, it is too dangerous to spar without something on." He says, standing between Rickard and Harry Hardyng.

Rickard shrugs, grinning.

"I only feel it when I stop." He answers, rubbing the spot where the tourney blade landed its hit. It gone red already, and in an hour the it'll go purple. "I'm a Dothraki. I feel no pain." Dondarrion bows out. "Another round, Harry?"

The Young Falcon is cross legged on the floor, panting sweating buckets. When the Prince asks him for the next round, he stares at him, his tongue falling out his mouth, dry as a bone. "You're not serious?"

He nods. There's only a little perspiration on his skin, and looks as though he'd go on till nightfall, the way he swaggers and grins and laughs at Harry Hardyng. "Only if you're up to it?"

Th Valeman grunts, struggling to his feet, and snatches up his tourney sword he's let drop from his hand. and jerkin he laid as side as he duelled with the Prince. "A moment. Give me a moment."

While Harry limps away for water and shade, Rickard stands in the yard alone, his bare chest rising and falling. He looks around and sees her, standing there, leaning against a wall observing him, and he seems to falter a little. To her, its pleasing to see his confidence rocked so by her presence alone. Rickard is a blusterer, the one who can laugh down an opponent and cheerfully stick his boot in their arse as they turn away from him. Yet her stare gives him a terrible beating. She who had left the land of her birth without anything, content to feel her family and kin and her father's snubs forever, and is now dependant on the courtesy and generosity of a man who has no love of Dorne, permitted the murder of her aunt and cousins – and is a Lannister in all but name.

Eventually, the Prince approaches her. Not as they did in the Royal Sept, as friends and confidants, but as in their formal rolls at court: Prince and Ambassador. She gives him the customary two bows, one as he approaches and another when he is before her, and he replies with one of his own after she'd done hers.

"Your Excellency."

"My Prince."

He's still no shirt on.

"What brings you hear, Princess? I didn't take you for a great spectator of the lists."

"I'm not ordinarily. However, there happened to be extenuating circumstances which drew me here."

He looks confused, and is about to enquire, but as she says it, there is a chorus of giggles behind her. Rickard looks and spots the gaggle of ladies watching them, and she sees the cogs clicking into place in his head. He's biting back something: the urge to grin or scream, and his ears and neck start to redden. He bows to them, "Good morning, ladies." And puts his hands on his hips, and leans to push his chest out some more, and they just stare at him, fanning themselves or pretending to.

"You fight well, ser." One of them says, and he inclines his head politely.

"Thank you, my lady, though I am no ser. Not yet any way."

"Soon, though?" Another asks him.

"I should hope so."

She, Arianne, raises an eyebrow. "And how would you hope to earn your spurs, my lord."

His brow furrows and he considers for a moment. "Who knows? Not I, but I'd be lying were I to say that the thought hasn't come to me. Mayhap I'll earn my spurs in some great battle, or slay some beast that terrorizes a poor village."

Arianne smiles, "The kind of things all hedge knights dream of."

"That, and rescuing Princesses." He adds, a tightness folding itself into his smile. "Though I've never known a hedge knight who'd had his travels take him to anything like these kinds of adventures."

He tells them of an old knight he met once, in Highgarden, - she too had met the knight perhaps this was why he's telling the story – those knights who made an honest living by riding to tournaments across Westeros and the gladiator pits of Essos. He'd cross the mountains and frontiers that separate one kingdom from another, a band of squires and horses in tow, always on the move from one prize to another, till age and too many injuries put him out of the game. Now in his final years he makes a living showing the young lords of the Reach, fighting against their spite and prejudice and bravado. He had told Arianne, in the days of Rhaegar and Aerys, the young learned to respect their elders, yet now I am forced to polish the armour of some giggling streak of piss I wouldn't let have lick my boots in the years gone by. And now look, he said to Rickard, I'm forced to drink with a… what even are you – Stormlander or Westerman?

The Knight himself was Dornish, an Orphan of the Greenblood river, and spoke a form of Rhoynish and a combination of Old, High and Bastard Valyrian. In those days, tournaments were the ground by which men tested themselves, not the place the idle went to show off and enjoy their luxuries. Then, the winner was not so clearly found, scoring would be complex and the judge would have no mercy for any break of the rules, so shatter your lances all, you may but a loss of points would lose you the title. All opposition flattened and come out with the beg of gold, but a fine on your record would mark you forever, and an offense caused in Lannisport, might catch you again in Sunspear, or even Braavos.

A small crowd is gathering around Prince Rickard now, and he is stroking his chin trying to look like the man whose wisdom he is trying to impart. Harry Hardyng and Lord Beric and the other knights and squires of the yard are even here, listening intently. For this, it maybe he doesn't mention what the knight said about how women were not left in the sun to sneer and smirk at you from behind pavilions, but kept in your tent for afterward.

"You need to set your squires at each end of the barrier," Rickard says, "so your mount won't go wide if the he tries to cut the corner, or your foot will catch, easy done too; for I myself have done it, and it's bloody painful. It's one of three ways to fail: Horse goes, squires go, nerve goes. Use a helm that gives you a good line of sight, keep your body square on and when you are to strike, turn to meet your opposition, and watch the tip of your lance fall straight onto the target. But your instinct may pull you back, make you lean away from your foes blow. Break it! And do not close your eyes as you go in. Keep them open, break this instinct too. Stay loose in the saddle, but a good hold on your ride. Carry the lance loose, don't tighten the muscles of your arms, else you pull yourself off target. Again, we have the lesson to learn: defeat your instinct. The will to have glory must surpass your will to survive, else do not take up the lance."

Everyone is lulled into a steady hush by the time Rickard finishes speaking, and he's managed to slip a shirt and doublet over his head without anyone really noticing it. It takes a good while for anyone to acknowledge that he's finished with his tale, people so stunned by the way he talks about jousting as if it were love-making. Perhaps it's his voice that does it really, his deep Western burr, soft melodic; he'd make a good minstrel or an actor on a stage, should his fortunes seriously crumble.

Then the Prince rises from the stool someone had set down for him as he was speaking, and he announces, "Well, it is getting late. I wouldn't want to detain any of you from your suppers, and I myself shall have an engagement I'd hate to be late for." And everyone is suddenly bowing and curtseying him, shrugging off the effects of his charms. He returns the bows, saying, "Ladies, my lords, sers," his eyes meet hers, shiny, deep like a pair of glittering lakes, "Until this evening, Princess." And while he is grinning and swaggering away with some retainers in tow, she is stationary and blushing, watching him go.

* * *

And then she is welcoming him into her dining room. It's just gone dusk, and the room I full of candlelight, burning low and lighting the room in an orange glow, which is only enhanced by the Dornish tapestries, drapes, and Martell banners she has on the walls. Rickard is intrigued by them, stops to admire them as he enters, but after that is does, he is unusually curt with her. "Before we begin dinner," he says, "I need to talk business with you."

"Business?" she wonders, innocently.

Rickard drops his smile. "About the cause my friends and I have declared ourselves for."

"Friends?"

His eyebrows furrow, and he looks at her like a man whose loosed his only arrow, and has to trod across the ground to seek an ally or enemy. "The friends I went to the Small Council with Yesterday. The friends which encompass a great amount of Westeros. Those who I spoke for when they signed their names to…"

She cuts him off. "Those who signed your armoured ultimatum."

"What? Don't call it that!"

"Too late everyone has already started." He looks irritated, and she adds, "Perhaps wearing armour was not a good idea."

Rickard gives a little shake of his shoulders, as if to shake off the dampeners she put on him. "Regardless, the cause me and my friends campaign in aid of is ours, but, as I'm sure you know, the better part of Westeros would rejoice…"

She cuts him off again. "I don't think the better part of Westeros knows or cares." But that's it. When Rickard says, 'the better part of Westeros' he really means 'one of _my_ Westeros's'. Either the Westeros of the Stormlands and the Westerlands, and occasionally the Reach: the Andal South, as the Dornish and Northerners call it. Or he means the Westeros he thinks slipped through his Father's fingers: where there are no Seven Kingdoms, but one, called Westeros, and one people, one language, led by one absolute and benevolent king, under the protection of the Seven Gods. Any other Westeros, to Rickard, is not worth living in.

"So," Arianne goes on to say, "what would you have of me?"

"We require you to support us. To join with us. We have no scruples about the Dornish presence at court, as our opponents do, which you know well enough. It's a goal of ours to ensure that the realm is drawn closer together, that there are no special cases."

"A goal as close to mine own heart, as yours." She smirks.

"Which is where our difficulty lies, Arianne. Under your father, Dorne is a part of the Seven Kingdoms in name only. Prince Doran is lord unto no one. And, despite your… 'disagreements' with him, this is your only common ground. It's your great want, for Dorne, and the other Kingdoms, for all I know, to secede from the Crown. Whereas…"

Whereas it is Rickard's great want to strengthen the bonds that keep Westeros one kingdom. Though he has no idea how to do it, for no one ever has, no one ever thought that Westeros could be one country, not just more than a collection of a dozen different nations.

"So, you see our problem. That we're asking help from a potential enemy."

She touches her chest, around her heart. "Why, Rickard, I thought I'd made it plain the other night? My deepest wish is to be the best possible friend I can to you."

And their deal is struck. She will do what she can to assist Rickard and his fellows to usher in their new regime, to oust Jon Arryn and the other undesirables, to do what she can to ensure that the Dornish lords back him at his Great Council. In return, he will do his best to guarantee that Dorne, while brought back into to the fold, is respected and afforded certain rights, and that, should the question ever be raised at any time, Dornish borders are off the table in negotiations with the Marcher lords of the Stormlands and the Reach, all of whom failed to, or were not asked to sign the Armoured Ultimatum.

And eventually, they sit down together, for dinner.


	4. GOT: Rickard 2

**Rickard**

Arianne's apartments are small, tiny in fact, compared to the other rooms available in Maegor's Holdfast. It was just a sitting room, with a table laid out for her to dine on or work from, and there is a plush chair by the small hearth, opposite a chaise lounge, which, given the Martell spear emblazoned on the cushions and Dornish sun on the back, Rickard assumed Arianne had bought herself and had moved to her rooms. The only other room was her bedchamber, which Rickard planned to not see inside of.

There were book cases in one corner of the room, opposite the fire, which was filled with the books on her home land, Essos, classics and Valyrian books, and a few story books Rickard had never heard of or couldn't understand, the titles on the spine written in a foreign language. Only a handful of books look to have been read, and they were all either about Dorne or the ones written in a different tongue.

Rickard turned his gaze from Arianne's room, to Arianne herself, sat across from him. She's been doing most of the talking, and he's been doing most of the eating. They've know each other well enough to know their dining habits, though admittedly this their first-time dining alone with one another. Arianne hates silence around a dinner table, and knows to appreciate good company; Rickard loves good food, and appreciates good drink. The story behind how they learned this about one another is how they established first names, and occurred early on in their knowing each other. He had been a squire and companion to his Uncle Renly, as he visited and travelled throughout the Reach for the second that year; she had been a recent arrival at Highgarden, an unofficial exile, who'd just been spurned by Willas Tyrell. He'd been given the job of seeing the Princess from the feast to her chambers, a short distance from his own.

"Is it far to go, my prince?" She asked, still unfamiliar with the layout of Lord Mace's abode.

"A short walk, my lady." He replied gruffly, irked by the tedium forced on him.

"You're a quiet one, aren't you? Never say much, sweet, little prince." He snorted quietly, and then she tartly said, "Or maybe you're just an arse?"

That had stopped the three-and-ten Rickard in his tracked, stole the stunned breath from his body to hear a Princess speak so. His boyish guards of polite courtesy and shyness came flying back up. "No, my lady. Forgive me." His bum-fluff covered cheeks had started going red. "I-I-It's just that: this is an inconvenience." She gave him a sort of offended look, which to his eyes had looked quite serious. "N-n-no! No! I-I-I hadn't m-m-m-meant… O-only I-I-I…" And then she started grinning at him with her serpent's smile, while made him look ashamedly at his feet, bite his tongue, and force away the stammer which he'd thought to have been rid of.

"I had hoped," he started slowly, checking, and concentrating hard on each word on his tongue, willing the stutter to stay away, "to stay at the feast a while more. The ss-sss-ssssquires" he paused and took a deep breath, "are about to head in t-to the cccity to…"

"Ah!" She had said, smiling behind her hand. "Now I understand. But, my prince…" Her tone had changed to one of mocking admonishment and Rickard cut her off to reply angrily, screwing in face up in a half-baked rage of annoyance.

"You're not going start talking like my mother. Just because I drink…"

Her turn to cut him off. "I take a drink as well, my prince."

"Oh." Came his flat answer. "Well…" He coughed awkwardly and started to roll on his heels, "then you can call me 'Rickard', if you like."

Arianne's smile shrank from what it had been before his abruptness, but at least seemed warmer. "And you may call me 'Arianne', Rickard."

He supposes this way of things should mean they should both be feeling forever awkward, but now it's all old water under the bridge. To reflect this Arianne steers the conversation where she pleases, and, as if she's been reading his thoughts, back to that night.

"You know, I had never thought you to be so easily embarrassed. The way you stammered so."

He swallowed his mouthful, and his mouth, smiling, to say, "There's a lot you don't know about me, Princess." And turning smile to grin as he watched her half scowl, half smile went on, "I always had it, when I was small. I refused to speak to just about anyone 'sides my mother, it embarrassed me so. Joff teased me about it, I imagine, and when I did have to speak, the way people would turn and look at me while I tried, though I can't really remember, being only six and younger."

"What about when you went to the Rock? How did the mighty Lord Tywin manage with a defective grandson?"

Rickard put down his knife, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them. "He was my greatest help."

Arianne frowned at him, but Rickard could not see, for he was looking passed her, and into his memories, for when he was first presented to Lord Tywin. "I was taken to the Throne Room as soon as I arrived, where half the Lords of the Westerlands had been summoned to celebrate my arrival. No one had said this to me. I knew I'd have to see my grandfather, and I even had to revise what I was to say to him, thank him for his taking me on as squire, thank him for his hospitality, etcetera. But when they made me waddle into the centre of the room alone, all those eyes on me, sniggering as I tried to speak, whisper the words through my stammer, and the tears I could feel…" He flinches, and cracks his knuckles.

Arianne, her mouth gaping open: "What did he do?"

"When he realised that his entire fiefdom was about to laugh me out the room, and into the arms of my nurse maid, he stood up walked forward saying… things I can't remember, welcomes, I think and escorted me out, patting my back, all the way to his study so my nuncle and some servants could clean me up."

"Did he stay?"

"No, but he made sure I'd be fine before he went."

"Decent of him," she says, sparingly.

He sighs. As a younger man, he would have furrowed his brow, argued with her and left in fury. But he is used to people treating the name of Tywin Lannister with such contempt, so knows to keep with temper, as much as it is against his nature and high esteem for his grandfather to do so. "You ought to know," he says, casually, as if dropping it into conversation as little more than an afterthought, "I am nothing, if not my grandfather's man."

And she has trapped him. "Even more so than the King's man? More so than your brother? The Crown?" She sips from her goblet almost leisurely, taking time to admire the Dornish wine swirl its contents around her goblet. "Your mother?"

He pauses, and considers. To anyone listening, for the Red Keep has ears in the walls, a wrong answer may be proof of his treason, his outrageous ambition on the Iron Throne would only be confirmed in light of recent events. Yet, he owes Lord Tywin so much; must be honest in his intents, at least that is what the Book of the Father tells him; and Arianne shall cut threw him if he is lying, which, for Gods' sake, she can always tell.

In the end he answers, "I don't know."

But instead of tearing into him over his indecisiveness, Arianne holds her tongue, watching intently the conflict on his face. "It hurts you so, to imagine that choice."

He nods.

"But they are choices you may have to make."

He lays down his cutlery and goblet. "Did you just ask me here to argue with me? Because I thought that you and I were above this kind of thing."

She snorts in that way of hers, that makes him feel like he is just puppet dancing on her strings. "Don't become high and mighty with me, Rickard. I can see straight through you. Don't pretend you didn't have ulterior motives for coming here. I imagine that as soon as your new friends heard about tonight they were onto you. I can hear them now: 'Oh, my prince, surely you can see what it would mean, if Dorne was in our pocket. Surely then! Your father would notice us.'"

"Then you'd be wrong then, wouldn't you?!" He barks, rising from the table pacing the room. Then sucks in a breath, sits on her chaise longue, and tries to return their conversation to more civilised tones. "Actually, they already know we have an accord. And gods know they were quite against this - us - meeting. They feel I acted rashly, and want the deal hammered out in full, and properly. Our friendship unnerves them. Most of them don't trust-" He looks up at her face and stops. She's beaming at him, teeth shining with conspiracy, almost as if she might wink at him at any moment. "What?"

"You admitted there is an 'us'"

He stiffens, and can feel a heat rising in his cheeks. "P-please. Can we not?"

But her grin only widens. "Was that a stutter I heard?"

"Goddammit."

His frustration makes her withdraw into herself a little. She stands from the table and walks towards him on the lounge, bringing two goblets and the wine jug. "Sorry. Forgive me. We are talking politics and conspiracy now, aren't we?" She gives him a goblet, fills it, and arranges herself anew on the chair opposite him, to look more as you imagine a Princess of Dorne should look on the throne at Sunspear. "I'll give them any reassurances they want. Tell them I am your right arm, ready to draw your sword." True enough this is the kind of talk that his people understand. He goes to speak but she interrupts, "Please, no more about it. I want to talk about something different. Tell me, if your friends don't trust me and my countrymen, why do you? Or why do you think you can?"

Rickard downs his whole goblet. He hates red wine, it makes him tired and gives him headaches the morning after. Still, he rearranges himself, to more be more Prince like, speaking with the tones a diplomat would, but he's brisk nevertheless. "We want a new order in the Seven Kingdoms. I know you do to.

"So, you said earlier, but do you mean: 'I' as in Dorne? Or 'I' as in me?"

"Both."

"And how exactly did you arrive at that conclusion? You seem to rather overconfident where I am concerned." She's playing with him, like a cat and a ball of string. Of course, this is really not about politics, he should have known better, should have foreseen she'd twist the conversation around and in on him. She is better at this than he: conspiracy and intrigue and manipulation. These are the forte of the Dornish and House Martell. And looking at her now you can see that Arianne is no exception. Being the only one of her people in King's Landing, she is exemplary, operating on a level greater than he, and it worries him. That is why she is so dangerous, why Dondarrion and the other fear her.

But then again, this is exactly why he needs her in their cause. Because their opponents are tricksters and liars, and make mincemeat of honest men and their words. That is why they needs their own liars. It's the compromise that must be made for them to succeed, for a few of their enemies to switch sides and continue spinning mistrust, but all of his followers hate it, and every one of them knows it may break them all to pieces. She, Arianne, sees the distrust and knowing in his eyes and on his face. And when he shares the doubts he has kept secret, knows that he should still be keeping secret, slides onto the chaise lounge beside him, her face the picture of serenity and care.

"I've never lied to you, Rickard. There has never been any dishonesty between you and I." She speaks as sincerely as he's ever heard her speak, grabs his hand, as if to show him that she is speaking the truth. "You must believe that. It'd hurt me to think that you and I cannot rise above this. You are my most valued friend. My only friend in King's Landing. Sometime, I think, in the world."

"I…" He thinks hard. Wants to believe her, he truly does, but: "I'm not sure I can believe you."

So, she lunges at him. He sees it coming, and sucks in a breath, the way he's been taught ready himself for a hit. But when the blow lands, it catches off guard completely. Arianne throws her whole body at him, he lips falling on his own and by the Seven he thinks that tonight couldn't have gone any further than what he planned. Everything has gone awry. But Gods' forgive him, the way Arianne kisses him, he doesn't care.

For the first time in his life, he truly doesn't.

* * *

She lays on top of him for a while after they stopped. It gives them each room to ponder what bridges have been crossed, which ones have they just gone and burned. They've gone no further than kissing, Rickard was insistent on that much, but still they're both quiet. Arianne plays with the medals and holy relics around his neck: thumbing each one, scrutinizing each in turn. He pretends to be asleep, it's late and he should be going soon, but he can't bring himself to leave. Not now. He can smell the soap Arianne uses to wash with. Its an earthy scent and has hints of orchids in it.

"Do you believe me now?"

"If I say 'no', what will you do?"

"Scream for the guards of course"

"Of course," then the uncomfortable reality starts creeping in on him. A heat rising in his neck and ears. Needless to say, this is both what he has wanted for a long time and expressly what he wanted not to happen when he came here. For that, something gnaws at him in his stomach, either his guilt or the relief of it.

Arianne asks, "You've never known a woman, have you?" She drops it on him like a stone in a lake, to see the ripples it'll cause.

"No, I do know women. I know you for one."

She giggles quietly, softly pulling on a medal: it's the Maid, or at least an interpretation of her. "I thought I was teasing you." He shrugs. "Come on, Rickard. You know what I'm asking."

"And it wouldn't be very princely of me to tell you."

"Aww! How noble of you? Protecting some woman's honour so humbly. It's a wonder only I have eyes for you." Arianne slithers her body up his own, wrapping her arms around his neck, rubbing her breast up his chest, and ensnaring her legs about his hips and legs.

"Well one of us should be humble, given you have pride enough for us both." She pecks his lips with her own. In the space between that and the next kiss she calls him something that sounds like brute. It's too distracting to listen properly anymore.

"You know," she goes on, working conversation in between her distractions, "If like, if you told me who it was, I could fight her for you. Bare-breasted, knife to knife." She whispers the last in his ear, like a hiss, as she toys with his neck.

Regardless of his answer, it stirs something in his cock, which suits her curiosity, makes her grin and her eyes glitter as she rubs herself against him. Even through all his clothes, and hers, he can still feel the heat of her, in her secret parts.

"Goddamit. Arianne, stop," It's a weak and feeble protest, and Arianne ignores as she starts undoing his clothes. "No, I said. Dammit." He grabs her swift and nimble hands and makes sure she knows he means it this time, and she is hurt, or pretends to be. "At least not tonight. The risk is too great right now. Give it time."

He pushes her off him, rises and starts straightening his clothes and flattening his hair. But she grabs his hand, digging in her nails hard enough to make him shout.

Arianne doesn't seem forgiving, she is shouting herself. "Others take you, Rickard! I thought we were beyond this shit you keep peddling me! I've had enough! I've been patient with you, gods know. But you cannot expect things to go on as they have done, not after tonight!"

"Things will be different!" He promises.

"Will they?! Will they?! Truly?! Oh well! Excuse my impertinence then. Forgive me dearly, your grace! I shall continue to countenance on your good faith, shall I?"

"You're acting childish."

"Bugger if I am. I like being childish." She sighs. "I cannot keep waiting on you like this, Rickard. It feels like every time we take a step forward, I must take another two backward. It's very tiring on a woman."

"I swear to you, things will be different now." Now that he knows what he's been missing. "In time, we won't have to hold back. In time, I… I'll marry you."

His vow catches them both off guard, her more than him at last. She looks like she's just seen a man thrown by his horse for the first time. But then she regains herself. "And what guarantee of that do I have?"

On his left hand, Prince Rickard Baratheon wore a ring. His ancestor Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, had forged it for his son, Ormund, when he roses in rebellion against Aegon the Unworthy. It had been based off a similar ring wore by the Baratheon's before the Conquest, when they called themselves Durrandon. Its purpose had been to denote the successor to Storm's End, the future Storm King and ruler of the Stormlands. In King Robert's day, the ring has lost all official meaning, but nevertheless there is still power behind it. All of his hopes rest upon that ring, that he might be more than a spare to Joffrey, that there is more in his future than King's Landing. It's why the Storm Lords have bound themselves to him.

"This is your guarantee, Arianne. Nothing less than mine own future, entwined with yours."

* * *

Some days later, Tyrek enters his study, without knocking – he's the only man in King's Landing allowed – and throws himself into a chair. It's late morning, yet Rickard still hasn't dressed. His routine is typically to wake up, shit and then write whatever letters need doing, and bathe. Today he has yet to shit. Perhaps last night knocked most of his dinner out of him.

His cousin says, "We have a problem."

"My bathwater won't heat."

"No. They're just having trouble with lighting the coals. But that's not what the problem is. It's your new friends."

He stamps his seal on the letter. And puts it aside to go and find the privy. "Oh? Jumping ship already, are they?"

"No, quite the opposite. They've been sending you gifts. Meat, to be frank. They all seem to be great hunters it seems. The cooks have been complaining that you have enough meat to feed an army."

He speaks to Ty through the privy door. "Send it to our prospective friends."

"Old Estermont sends us a buck every day."

"The Estermonts are my relatives. And love… love me well." He wipe's his hands on the cloth Tyrek offer him as he leaves, and walks on toward his bath.

The Royal bath chamber is an ingenious room. In the centre, a great stone furnace lays burning coal beneath a huge cauldron full of simmering water from which bucket are drawn and poured into the long stone bath, large enough for a man to swim in. Along the side of the bath, Rickard's breakfast is laid. Sausage, and black pudding with eggs and bacon and brown bread. Tyrek helps himself to the food, as he sits in a chair beside the bath, waiting for Rickard.

"Love you well, maybe. But they're still sending you the meat. And the Bucklers–"

"Hand it out to the poor. Ask the High Septon where the poorest in the city live, we'll go and deliver it ourselves. Take after how they do it in Highgarden."

"But it's still the butchering of the thing, Dick. All the skinning and quartering to be done."

"So? We'll go down and give the kitchens a hand. You and I, together, shall we?"

"You can't!"

"Why not? It'll be like the Rock again. You remember those days, when we'd all go to the cliffs. Hunt our own food, swim, drink, build a fire, cook. That was a way to spend a day."

"Unless the Old Lion had want of you. Then we had to kick out the fire and walk back. Some of us, if we were unlucky, naked!" There is bitterness in the last bit, over that one-time Tyrek had been forced to walk back to the Rock stripped.

"Are you still sore over that? I told you at the time not to leave your things with Lancel and Jason." Smirking, and working soap into his hair, he says, "You didn't have an answer."

Tyrek looks him and shakes his head. "Mother have mercy! You really are of seven minds. At one turn you're a noble prince, full of chivalry and gusto, the next you're spitting blood in a dog hole tavern, like some cast off drunkard. Or prim as a Septon with your holier than thou preaching's from which ever book comes to mind, before throwing yourself into bed with whores and serving girls…"

The Prince cuts him off. "I have not been in bed with a whore!"

"Your thirteenth name day." His cousin says flatly.

He shrugs, "Wasn't in a bed. Besides, I didn't pay."

"Still, you can't deny the principle of the thing. Your _contrarianism_."

"I'm a prince of the blood: contrarianism is might God given right." He leans across the bath, grabs the holy charms, and medals laid to one side and shakes them at Tyrek. "These as my witness!" He offers a silent prayer and lays them to aside again. "Look at Prince Rhaegar. Men thought he was Blessed Baelor, the Young Dragon and Daeron the Good all in one. Then he turns around and kidnaps Lyanna Stark."

His cousin puts his head in his hands. "And it didn't exactly turn out well for him, did it?"

"No granted, but then again, who do you imagine I would imprison and rape?"

Tyrek snorts at it. "You're a heartless swine."

Grinning, he quips, "Just my contrarianism at work." They take conversation back to proper areas. "These well-wishers, I suppose I'd better write my thanks."

"I suppose you'd better." Tyrek offers him a hand out of the bath, and then a towel, before wrapping another one round the prince's head and start drying his hair.

"Ty. Dammit. _Ty!_ " He throws his cousin off. "For godsake, you're my cousin, there's no need to try playing at my valet."

Tyrek shakes his head and comes forward with a towel again. "More than that, my prince, I am your humble servant, as instruct by your grandfather, mine own nuncle, be it on the tourney ground or in the bath. Besides, at least by sticking this close to you, your mother can never accuse me of not being her spy."

"Still, some people resent it, Ty."

"Oh?"

"Some of the court resent you. They feel you are the arch-Lannister, the puppeteer behind the Prince."

Tyrek laughs as well. He's no more a puppet master than a prawn shell. "You should tell these people where to find me on a good night, that should prove them wrong." They start fitting the Prince in to his clothes.

"You see where they come from though? Remember the effort I put into making you my Father's squire?"

"Vaguely, you turned to your Father on a hunt one day, pointed to me and said: 'Father, you should make this man your squire.' Your Uncle Stannis went brick red, Jon Arryn got very anxious and your mother couldn't stop grinning. And I've never done a day's work since."

"Course not. Why d'you think I got Lancel made his squire too?"

* * *

The Prince and his company, Harry Hardyng, Tyrek and a few others, were just riding out the Red Keep when they started to be shouted down. Rickard turned in the saddle to see Ronnet Connington, a friend to the King and few others besides, calling for him. He rides toward him, flashing a grin, pulling off his feathered hat, and bowing. "My good knight, how are you?" He says, "Not in Griffin's Roost?"

"No, my prince."

"Well, I know the game in the Kingswood isn't as good as that in the Stormlands, but you're more than welcome to saddle a horse with us."

"I'm afraid not today. Your father has requested you urgently. You and Squire Harrold are to follow me immediately."

Harry is by his prince's side in an instant. "What's this, Connington? Why's the King sent for us?"

"It wouldn't be my place to say."

Rickard and Harry look at one another, each as clueless as the other. Nevertheless, both they and Tyrek dismount, but when the Lannister goes to follow them Ser Ronnet says, "Not him. No others. Just you two."

Now they no they've been dropped in shit. The look goes between the three of them, and Rickard says to Tyrek, "Go find Dondarrion, and come after us."

"Should I bring anyone else?"

"A dagger." Offers Hardyng, and any other time it'd be a joke.

"No!" He barks at Harry, "Mother's mercy, no. I'll have none of that." Then to Tyrek, "Just get Beric and keep the horses saddled." They say nothing further. No point, he warns them, until they know more.

Harry and the Prince follow Red Ronnet through the Red Keep, whispering to one another conspiratorially. "Well?" Harry asks, "What is it we've done?"

It could be a thousand different things, a hundred good, a hundred bad. But the feeling in his bones makes him think the latter. Mayhap the King will answer their Armoured Ultimatum, maybe the Council, in their wisdom have conceded their defeat and surrendered themselves and their offices. Or perhaps the King is backing his Council and has come to slap down his misfit son. Come to take him in hand as he should have done when the Prince was a child and caused trouble enough back then.

"Gods know." He says to Harry. "We'll have done nothing wrong, whatever it is. So long as we holdfast, it can be proven. Not… No, h-he couldn't have!"

Or maybe – and Baelor's bastard the thought of it makes his legs shake – what if someone, somehow, betrayed himself and Arianne to the King or someone else?

Harry stops, and shakes him by the arm, "What is it, Rick? Seven Above, what's happened?"

What was it he prophesied to Arianne? That his manhood would be sliced off and he'd be sent to the Wall in chins, as Arianne is carted off to a whorehouse. He wonders who would do the cutting. His Father; his headsman, Ilyn Payne; maybe Joffrey would offer his knife; or as a crude irony, that bastard Eunuch, Varys.

He shouldn't have gone there last night, he should have gone to the Sept and prayed for strength, prayed for guidance, prayed for anything that would have protected Arianne from his own selfishness. There any number of things he should have done. Should have sent Tyrek to Arianne, had her put-on horse and ship. Sent away across the Narrow Sea, to Norvos, her mother's home land, where his father's fist and the Spider's web cannot reach.

Hardyng shakes him again harder by the arm. "Rickard, Father Above, what's going on?"

The Prince swallows, shuts his eyes, and closes his mind. He'll not face this afraid. He'll go down fighting, clawing, shouting. Because what is a man but the some of his creations, his children, the Book of the Smith says, and he has no children, and will not allow them to take that from him. He'll force them to open his throat than submit to the knife. He's finished fearing Robert Baratheon, this shadow of the Demon of the Trident, he'll tear the crown from his head and Joffrey's too, if he really is there. He'll redeem the cowardice he felt as a child, he'll force his Father to repent the crimes done to his Mother, Myrcella and Tommen, and even Joff.

His face arranged, his blood set to boil, he says to Harry, nothing. And they walk on.

Red Ronnet leads them up the Tower of the Hand, up and up the spiralling stairs. And he plans the fight in his head, where and when to strike his Father, where the blows will rain down on, how to leap back from the counter, when to dive back in and wrap his hands around that fat neck. But a noise slows his thoughts, puts pour oil over his burning blood.

In an antechamber, they stop. It's not full for its size, but there are people in it nonetheless. Not guards, not a knife, not even the King himself. In a corner, Lysa Arryn sits on a chair, clutching in her arms her sickly child, Robyn, whimpering. In the other corner, Ser Vardis Egen, the Captain of the Hand's Guard, looks forlorn as he consults with his Uncle's, Stannis and Renly Baratheon. Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, guards a door off to the side, through which voices can be heard. His Mother, the Queen, stands off to the side patting the head of a whimpering Tommen, and holding Myrcella's hand as she sniffs and wipes her noes on the sleeve of her dress. His Uncle Jaime is beside them, looking consoling in his white cloak and plate armour.

He's about to go to them before, as if appearing out of a puff of smoke, the worm Lord Varys slithers toward them. Not to greet his Prince, but to Harry, who he takes by the arm and says, "My lord, you have my sincerest condolences. You carry your grief well."

"Grief?"

Again, the Prince and he exchanged glances, before they walk forward to the Hand's chamber, where laid upon the bed, still and cold was Jon Arryn. Hardyng leans to rest his weight upon the doorway, Rickard half catching him.

"Oh, Harry, my friend, I am sorry."

Hardyng grips his friend's arm and squeezes, says, "Damn, I'd never…" He pauses and sucks in a breath, "I didn't know… I…" The lordling sways on his feet.

"Do you want some time alone?" He nods and Rickard closes the door.

Outside, he turns to his family, but Ser Barristan tells him, "His Grace wished to see you." And motions to the door he stood vigil behind.

He enters cautiously, slow, picking out the surrounding with each step. The King has his back to him, hands bracing himself against the fireplace, beside him the Grand Maester, Pycelle, speaks, "As I said, Your Grace, his fever spread like wildfire, through Lord Arryn it was doubtful he could have been saved. At his age, the body is weak to such…"

As his councillor went on speaking, the King rose a hand off the mantelpiece, and thrust his fist into a crude contact with Grand Maester's chest. Had the blow been any heavier, the old man would've been knocked from his feet, instead he stumbles backward, wounded, and bows out the room. They are left alone: Father and son.

"You… Your Grace, you wished to see me?"

King Robert slumps, then raises himself to his full height turns, and erupts like the Doom of Valyria. "You! You bastard! You idle, murdering, shitfaced whoreson!" He storms forward, mighty and imperial, stopping before the Prince, breathing like a torrent. "You've murdered the best man in the Seven Kingdoms, the man who raised me. The man who you weren't worthy to lick the boot of! And why? WHY IT THAT?!"

He goes to speak, but at the sight of his open mouth, his Father raises his fist again. The contact is anything but crude this time, the blow strikes him masterfully in the centre of his chest, knocks all the air out of him. The King's face is contorting with rage.

"Because you wanted a chance to try and play at being King! Because you wanted to see everyone bow to you! Well bow now! BOW YOURSELF, YOU SHIT!" Another blow hits him in the ribs, but as he moves to rise the fist grabs his throat, begins to squeeze. "Who do you think you are, boy?! You dare to think that you can be more than the murdering whore you are?! You are no more a Prince than the boil on my arse!" He tries to fight off his father, to claw away, back off from him, but his fists might as well be made from jelly given the impact they have. "You think you have men in your pocket? NO! Not while I live! I! ME! THE DEMON OF THE TRIDENT! They fear me as well they should. I clawed my way to the throne on the bodies of dragons. And you mean to climb the same one with a piece of paper." Robert spits on him, but he can't feel it. His vision starts going black, and there are spots of colour across what remains of it. But then the King releases him, throws him back, as if he were disposing of dirt that had clung to his hand.

It seems to be over, but he forces himself to his feet. He'll not be afraid. He'll not stay down. "You've betrayed everything it meant to be King. You betrayed _the Gods!_ "

The King slaps him down again, smashes his fist into his mouth, slashing blood from his lip everywhere, then kicks him in the rib, grabs him by the head and drives him to the floor. "I betray God? My throne was given to me by the Warrior himself!" Then his father seized upon the medals around his neck, and pulled until they were taught, digging into the flesh. "You worship the Gods, but shit on their work. You dare question my crown! That work that delivered the realm from the tyranny of dragons! You cry out for the smallfolk, yet would destroy the men you delivered them from three hundred years of blood and fire. You! _A virgin fucking child!_ I AM THE KING! I AM THE WARRIORS FIST ON EARTH! And you will _never_ be this country's king!"

There's a sudden thud and a throbbing pain in his left hand, before the King releases him and he can hear his father's pounding footsteps leave the room, banging the door open. His vision glazes over, but he can clutch his hand and see between his blurred vision the blood covering it and the finger lying on the floor before he passes out.


	5. GOT: Tyrek 1

**Tyrek**

They bundle the Prince away into his room, once the Maesters finished patching him up the best they could, wrapped him in silk and cotton and velvet on his bed, where he now sleeps. On either side of him, his siblings, Tommen and Myrcella, have him boxed in, asleep themselves and eyes red from crying. They're so young and innocent: The King's attempted murder of his own son is harder on both of them than it is on Rickard. But then nothing fazes Rick, at least not when there are people around.

In a few days, when the evening rolls in Rickard will drink himself stupid until the grief will come pouring out like a torrent. And he, Tyrek Lannister, will be there to hold his hand and stroke his hair until passes out again, and then that will be the end of sorrow. But that is half a week away, for now he sleeps, reassures everyone else, and complains about his treatments.

Each wound he took from the King, Rickard has taken before, aside from his missing finger, and he's shrugged them off each time. But to have been bombarded with them all at once, and by his own Father? It's all the more terrible. Just ask the maesters who pieced him back together. His piss boils thinking how anyone allowed it to happen, even the Kingsguard, who are sworn to protect the Royal family, not just the King. He would have kicked in the door and throttled the King, or willed Rickard to defend himself. But instead he arrived late, to hear the screaming and see Rickard bruised and bleeding opposite Jon Arryn's death chamber.

Tyrek keeps vigil, over the Prince and his siblings, as has been his charge since he and Rickard were children. Some visitors come by to Rick, see how he fares. Mainly it's his supporters, who turns away, almost at the point of a dagger, but there are others. His ill-wishers come to gloat, or those who were his supporters and have come to renounces it after hearing of King Robert's displeasure. Only one comes by whom he has no right to turn away.

The Queen comes alone, except Ser Jaime, who stays outside at his instance. He tells them, "I'll not suffer one of the Kingsguard. Not while they stood aside and let it happen." The twins are indignant, but he more so. And the Queen is too tired to fight anymore. She says nothing except when she asks him to leave. He stares her down, says, "It's my duty to him to stay here." She ignores him instead.

She looks a state, even more traumatised than the Princeling and Princess. After the Queen ordered her son to the Maester's, dragged there by him, her brother, Lord Beric and Ser Barristan, she flew off like a harpy in search of her husband. With whom she presumably quarrelled with for hours before he left. Now she rests beside her son, kisses his brow and strokes his cheek. It must be her weight on the mattress that wakes up Myrcella, who breaks into fresh tears, sobbing into her mother's hair.

During this, Harrold Hardyng steps threw the door. He's already dressed for mourning Jon Arryn, all in black. But once he steps in he steps back out, half dragged by Ser Jaime, keeping vigil on the other side of the bedchamber door.

"Wait," He says to Arryn, and grabs him by an arm. "Come back in the morning, but promise me one thing in the meantime." Arryn gives a sad nod. "That this bastard King will stand."

"For definite." Swears Hardyng, before the Kingslayer escorts him out.

* * *

Harry returns in the morning, still in black, an hour after Queen returns to collect Tommen and Myrcella, waking Rickard, who is wide awake in bed, propped up on cushions and pillows. The Young Falcon takes one look at Rickard and turns away, as if out of shame. "You're not well." He says, "I can come back later."

Rickard throws a pillow at him. "Change your face. The only thing making me unwell is that look on your mug." He calls back, rubbing at his ribs where they've cracked. "Sit down. Seven save us, I'm fine. Wish people would stop treating me like broken glass."

The Young Falcon smiles at his Prince, for what must be the first time since yesterday. He takes up the chair beside the bed, while he, Tyrek, sits on the window ledge. Rickard turns his manner from abrasive to consoling. "How are you, Harry?"

"Well enough. Yourself?"

"Never better." A pause. "About Jon Arryn-"

Harry cuts him off. "I don't blame you. If I were, I'd be as much to blame. He was an old man. Old men die."

"Thanks." Rick seems to relax into himself a bit, squares back into the pillows. "How's Lady Lysa?"

Harry's face blackens. "I wouldn't know." It's all he seems willing to say.

Tyrek walks into the breach. "She's gone, Rick."

"Gone?"

"Gone. Abandoned the city just after dawn. Took most of Jon's knights and men-at-arms with her too."

"Why?"

"Gods know," Harry snarls, "But she took Robyn with her." Agitated, Harry rises to pace the room. For with custody of Robyn Arryn, Lady Lysa need only ride to the Eyrie enthrone Robyn as Lord Paramount of the Vale and everyone shall forget about any talk of Our Harry being Lord Harrold Arryn. Or if Harry had custody of the little lord, he'd at least be able to name himself as Lord Protector, until Lord Robyn comes into his own.

Rickard bows his head, nodding, stroking his battered chest to sooth the aching. "It was bound to happen. Though I couldn't have imagined it so soon. Still, all might not be lost." Harry looks at him, at though a temple might burst through him blonde hair. "There is still the Wardship of the East. It's not hereditary. And my Father's not like to appoint a child, or a woman who runs off like a thief in the night. How is the King?" He says it as an afterthought, but it's not. Not the way that he pulls on the bandages wrapped around his left hand.

They look at each other, Tyrek and Harry, before looking back at Rickard, his eyes looking up at them darkly, warning: tell me the truth or don't tell me at all. It's him who answers his cousin. "He left yesterday. To the Kingswood. Whether he's hunting or grieving or any other thing, we don't know."

"He'll be back though." Harry adds. "Chances are, he'll want to stand vigil over Lord Jon for his funeral, the night before and such."

Rickard grins. "And to appoint a Hand, I imagine."

He smiles. "Well then, hadn't you better write to him? Our new Hand?"

But instead of smiling, Rickard cocks an eyebrow. "What?"

"The Old Lion?" He says, pulling his legs up on the window sill. "You should write and tell him. Warn him to expect Robert at Casterly Rock to name him."

Then Rickard does laugh, loud, but it turns to coughing and wincing and clutching at his side. "Oh Gods, Ty, don't make laugh. It's agony." He eases himself back, smiling and groaning. "He won't appoint grandfather. That would be too good. To me, my mother, anyone. He won't name him just to spite us."

"Who then?" Rickard admits he doesn't know, so they go through it, who might be the next Hand.

"Stannis?" Offers Hardyng

"Doubtful." Rickard dismisses his oldest uncle. "They loath one another. Stannis is as likely to be Hand as I am."

He offers Renly, the Kings other brother. "He's Master-of-Laws. Most powerful councillor underneath the Hand."

"Maybe. He prefers Renly to Stannis, certainly. They often hunt together."

"And he's Lord of Storm's End," Harry adds. "True Lord Baratheon, and all that."

"Yes…" Rick says, before adding. "But I'm not sure he trusts him. He's not a complete idiot, he wouldn't trust the kingdom to someone he wasn't sure of."

"What about Selmy?" He suggests

"The Kingsguard?" Rickard asks.

"Aye, the Lord Commander." Harry says, excited. "It's not unknown for a Lord Commander to be Hand. And the King always keeps him about, and he was meant to be a Storm Lord, before he took up the white cloak. Yes, that's who he'll give it to."

He shoots down Harry. "Selmy also fought for the Mad King, on the Trident no less. Besides Rhaegar."

Rick says ponderously, "What about Lord Stark?"

Harry cocks a brow and asks, "Who?"

"Eddard Stark," the Prince repeats. "Lord of the North."

"Why him?"

He chips in. "They won't have seen each other since, what? The Rebellion? If that?"

The Prince nods. "Exactly, they fought the Rebellion together. And knew Jon Arryn from when they were squires. He'll hold him in as much steam as Arryn, if not more."

Harry protests. "But he won't have been to King's Landing since the coronation."

"And when was Jon Arryn in the capital before the King named him Hand?"

He shakes his head. "I can't see it myself. I'd put my money on Renly."

Rickard grins at him. "Bet?"

He should know better, especially when his cousin grins at him thus. But he can't resist any bet out of sheer competition. "A dragon?" And then they shake hands. "What about it, Harry? Still confident about Ser Barristan?" The Young Falcon gnaws on his lip a while, before the will not to be out done forces him to accept.

"Either way," Rickard says, "better get Dondarrion up here. We'll have to see how we can work this to serve the Cause." They go quiet, Harry and himself. Rickard sighs. "Now what?"

"Lord Beric spoke to me, Rick," Hardyng says, "He wonders given the light of things yesterday, if we shouldn't give up on the Charter, or at least postpone our lobbying of it."

Rickard goes red in the face. "My father was grief ridden," he replies, waving it over, "Had it been any other day, he wouldn't have…" The words escape the Prince, so it falls to his cousin to supply him.

"Wouldn't have tried to kill you." But that looks to just anger Rickard. "Or at least just mutilate you. What, Rick? You cannot shake this off. This is not an invalid want, to hold off the Cause till your safety is assured. And by the blood of Baelor, don't look at me like that!" He's on his feet now, and shouting. "He took off a finger this time, what about next time? A hand? An arm? Maybe he'll take you part bit by bit, work his way up to your head."

"You're being dramatic, it won't come to that."

"Damned if I am, I'm talking sense. I-" He stops, holds back what he wants to say. "We can't afford to lose our prince."

But Rickard holds his ground. "I will not be cowed by anyone so meekly. Not by you, not my father, not anyone. If it comes to it, I'll defend myself. And I tell you now, gods nor men shall compel me to yield without a fight. So, Ty, are you with me?"

What can you do, when a prince swears to face down all opposition so valiantly, what is there to do, but follow him. Harry swears to follow his Prince too, and before the days is out, all the members who favour his withdrawal shall follow him too. But that is hours away, and right now someone is knocking on the door. It comes an hour or so after the argument, and to mellow their tempers the three of them are smoking dried sourleaf, passing each other's pipe between them. And the knocking sets them reeling, that they might get a wigging for their ugly, peasants habit.

He bolts to throw open the window and waft fresh air into the room and guide the smoky air out, while Harry is lighting scented candles and a fire in the hearth. Rickard sits in his bed, hiding the smoking leaf burners beneath his sheets. What a story it will be, if the bed catches fire with the Prince still sat in it?

Eventually, once they're sat around looking whimsical and nonchalant again, a wash bowl in Rickard lap and him sharpening the Prince's razor, Harry opens the door revealing: "Princess!" It's Rickard who shouts it, bolting forward in his bed, but his crippled bones pull him back and water goes splishing and splashing around the bowl onto his legs.

Sure enough, Arianne Martell comes swathing in, black silk blowing in the draft behind her. Even in black, she's a beauty, even he can see it. And what must be a Dornish thing, she wears a vail as part of her mourning dress. She holds up a hand to Rickard – as though it weren't a Prince of the Realm she was gesturing to – so she can dismiss his attempts to pay her proper curtsy. Even though, Rickard starts turning pink, because he looks as though he's pissed himself.

"Please, my prince," she says, inkling her head to his bed, "no need to bow unto me. I hate to think I'd caused you effort. We need not trouble each other over these trivial things. Especially when it's an informal visit."

"Of course, and who is he to warrant respect."

"TY!" Rick shouts at him, and makes him jump, the razor sliding between his fingers. He hadn't thought he said it aloud, but apparently, he did, and his cousin is looking bullishly at him. "Out," he says, "and come back when you can mind your manners."

"What? You're not serious?" Rickard is a stout believer that, despite the life he leads behind closed, with himself and Harry and a few others, that rudeness in public is forbidden (unless it's to make a point), especially in front of women. But his reaction is extreme. If he were Joffrey or Tommen or an uncle of his, he could understand it, but to act so harshly to him, his favourite cousin, his acting right arm?

Still, he goes without much argument, even bows an apology to Princess Arianne, no point aggravating Rickard. It must be his injuries, he thinks, they can put him in a foul temper and shorten his fuse. Hardyng comes after him, either willing or sent out after him, or as well. The Young Falcon and he stand in Rickard's sitting room, talking.

Harry asks him, "What was that about?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe he's trying to be nice to her, given she's supposedly nailing her skirt to our mast. He has great faith that Dorne will join us."

Rolling his eyes, Squire Harry wonders, "What makes him put so much faith in Dorne? Why does he value it so? There are better people, better kingdoms we could do with? That would join us easier, or offer us more."

It's a valid point he argues. One that Harry and others have always argued with Rickard over. It was always: "But my Prince, the Vale is more prestigious, the Riverland's more affluent, the North greater in its strength of arms." And so on for the other Kingdoms. But Rickard would say: "No." When they first brought it up, in the start of the Cause he would say, " _Dorne_ has quarrelled with so and so and such and such, so it will join us." Then he started saying, " _They_ are with us for such and such." But these past few weeks he started saying, " _She_ will join us because…" And whichever excuse he had that day.

He says to the Young Falcon, "I don't think its Dorne he's interested in, more its Princess."

An eyebrow goes up, and Hardyng turns to look at the bedroom door, uneasy, thinking it should have been better if he stayed. "You don't think that he… they?"

"Nah. She's got four years on him, doubt she cares for him that much. Dornish are crafty people, but not stupid."

Harry shifts on his feet, awkwardly. "Still, you know what they say about Dornish women, though."

He doesn't, but can imagine the kind of thing that are circling through Harry's head. "I doubt Rickard has it in him, not without telling someone. Or he'd spend too long in a sept afterward for me at least to know."

The lordling goes quiet, unsettled by it, and they sit quietly for a few minutes, until Tyrion Lannister comes strolling in. "Morning, cousin!" He says smiling brightly. "How is he? Still licking his wounds?"

"No. But everyone that sees him needs to know have sorry for himself he feels. So that they might know the lesson in humility that's been dealt to him."

"Good, I'll be sure to spread the room." Then the dwarf peels off, makes for Rick's room, but then he calls after him.

"You can't go in."

Curious: "Why not?"

"He's in with someone else."

"Oh? Who?"

He looks out the window, that leads onto the balcony. Harry looks at his feet. "Tyrek," the Imp prompt him, frowning just by his reaction, "who's he in with?"

"The Princess of Dorne."

A queer look goes across the little man's ugly face, looks around a moment, and then looks as though he's just realised something, found an answer to some long-pondered question written on the walls. Then he turns, and marches for the door. He and Harry go after him try to stop him, but those short, stunted legs are quicker than you expect, and then Tyrion is banging twice on the door and throwing it open.

"Rickard!"

"Uncle!"

The dwarf stands in the doorway, hands on his hips, as they both peer in the door afterwards. It makes him bite his lip to stop from grinning, he does it better than Harry, who pulls away sniggering. Rickard sits on the bed, smoking away merrily, his face smothered in shaving cream, while Princess Martell sits with her back to the door, sat on the bed, drawing a razor across his face.

"Having fun?"

A shrug. "Not really. You know how I hate shaving."

"I can see that." The Imp starts tapping his foot and crosses his arms. And as the Princess finishes her job, he asks for a word with his nephew. She goes out smirking, and Tyrion kicks the door shut after her, locking them all out. Last glimpse they get is Rick's face going pink. Then they hear something like a slap. He turns to Harry: "This doesn't leave this room."

"Count on me. Just worry about her." He says, watching after this Princess's footsteps.

* * *

When the King returns two days later, he summons a meeting of the entire court. Everyone goes, all the Baratheons go, and the Lannisters too. Already the Small Council are sat in their seats before the Iron Throne, but the Masters of Law and Ships. On his way in, Stannis Baratheon, looking ragged, unnerved, stops Rickard; grabs him by the shoulder, asks, "All right, lad?"

When was the last time one Baratheon acted this way to another? Rickard himself is caught off guard, but takes in stride. "Fine, uncle. Thank you."

"He does this, you know. Waits until you find your footing, then knocks away the ground from under you." His nephew stands, nodding, smiling. "Should have seen him when our parents died? You'll think you got off lightly. I think I still have a scar, mind others got it worse than I? Still you can bare it. You're cut from better stone."

A pause. Rickard starts to roll on his feet.

"You're right, of course. In part. About this Charter you made. And even with that beating, Robert went too far. So, I'm resigning my council seat. It'll show Robert that he can't get have everything, and it'll help you, I think."

When they finish talking, Rick says to Harry, "Well I'm not sure what he hoped to accomplish by that. I imagine my father will be glad to be rid of him."

"Dozy old fool."

He, Tyrek, says to them, "Mayhap he knows something we don't."

"Yeah," Harry sniggers, "maybe if the King names you Hand, Rick, he'll expect a promotion."

Rick chuckles. "Well then you can have his old job, Harry."

Pretending to pout, he says, "And what job will you give me?"

"Oh, that's easy. You can do mine for me."

The three of them laughing seems out of place to most courtiers, who stare at them with vain and cruel expression. But it drags them even more unwanted attention. Petyr Baelish comes strolling forward: sleeker than a cat, basking in the sunlight and pruning his whiskers.

"How pleasing to see you at last, my prince," he greets, smirking. "Good to see you laughing again." And not bleeding all over the floor, is the unwritten message carved into his smile. "Of course, I hadn't thought that you'd be smiling so soon, given your newly found humility. A result of your father's… check on your ambitions, no doubt."

If it weren't for the crowd swelling around them, and Harry's hand on his arm, Rickard would have made a puddle of Baelish by now.

"No doubt, my lord." Rickard answers, gritting his teeth.

"And you are healing well. Your hand is fine?"

He moves forward, or tries to, in order to get another body in between the two. But Rick shifts a foot and steps on his toe. "Fine, Baelsih," he says, stepping closer, raising the offending hand, peeling of the bandages, to show off his ring finger. "You see, he only took half of it off, really. If you like," By now his other hand was grabbing the Master of Coin by his collar, "You can outside with Harry here for ten minutes, see how you yourself can stand up."

"Five would be enough," Harry says, pulling out his dagger. But then a door opens, and King Robert walk into the room, Rick letting Littlefinger go.

As Robert ascends to his Throne, everyone bows their heads. Everyone but Rickard, who folds his arms, watching the King sits on his Throne like a great sulky baby, before he sees Rick stood staring right at him, and then rising again, comes charging down the steps at him. It almost as if His Grace thought that the rush alone would knock Rickard into a bow, but instead they come face to face. King towers over Prince. Rick isn't even six foot tall, and for the first time looks his size.

He shrugs at his father. "Can't. Maesters told me 'not to make any unnecessary movement.' Sorry."

But the King just stands there going more red. And Rickard goes. "Oh, very well." He runs a hand through his hair, goes to one knee, both hands on it, and looks up as though he were prepared to be knighted. The standoff goes on for at least five minutes, before the King turns on his son and retakes his seat on the throne. Everyone finally lets out their breath, relieved. All but Rickard, who takes one, tries to push himself up, but his bones won't have it. He slaps them in the gut, Harry and himself, to get their attention, so they take him underneath each arm and pull him back onto his feet.

Harry whispers, "Mother have mercy, give us warning before you do a damn stupid thing like that again."

"Had to be done, Harry. Couldn't have him thinking he'd changed anything. Besides, if was going to hit me first again, I wanted a better target than his face." They should laugh, but all the eyes still on them forbids it.

The King speaks slowly, through misty eyes. He gives testimony to Lord Arryn, now lying in rest beneath the Great Sept of Baelor, and his speech about him goes on for almost five minutes. It surprises everyone, to hear the King speak this way. Still no one is especially interested, they all want to hear the same thing, what they've placed five dragons each on: who is the next Hand of the King.

"It's my intention," Robert booms eventually, "to travel north, to Winterfell, where I shall name Eddard Stark to succeed Jon Arryn." Murmuring breaks out between courtiers.

"Well, lads, pay up." Rick says, opening his hand behind his back.

Harry just curses. "Balls."

"So, it's to Winterfell then." He says, reaching for his pocket "So are we riding, or sailing."


	6. GOT: Rickard 3

**Rickard**

They're all filing their way out of the throne room, he, Ty, and Harry burrowed in conversation, when someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns, expecting to see Petyr Baelish's smug smirking face back again, but he's wrong. "Renly," he says, ponderously, "what is it?"

His ordinarily kindly, smiling face is set to concern, and he says seriously, "He wants to talk to you."

"Mmm."

No point asking who he is. He's stood up from the Iron Throne, staring at him. Harry and Tyrek are at his back when they realise he's been quiet for too long. "What's to do, Baratheon?" Harry asks, barging through a throng of courtiers.

"The King wants to see Rick alone."

They both groan. "Not again."

"So, is it another beating? Or is he going to hold my hand to the fire until I apologise."

He goes without a fight. After the Throne Room has emptied till it's just the two of them, Renly leading him to the rooms behind the Iron Throne, where his father is waiting. It's a small room, with a fire, and his father is at a table laying into a goblet of wine. Renly hurries, murmurs a good luck to him, but besides that he'll receive no help.

"Your Grace?"

He just sits there drinking, unacknowledging him, again.

"If I'm here for another beating, can we make it quick? I have things to do."

Still nothing.

"Or is it a different punishment this time? Something that'll leave scarring this time." He goes to the fire, takes up the poker, and waves it in the flames. "Brand me with this? Eh? Or if you prefer-"

"Oh, Shut up! Shut your smug bastard mouth, and sit down!"

To emphasize his point, his Father kicks out a stool from beneath the table. He hesitates, before he acquiesces, thinking, probably best, I'll get into less trouble, hitting him with a stool than I would a white, hot poker. So, they sit, the Prince and his King. One twiddling his thumbs, the latter drinking goblet after goblet, tapping his feet, and fidgety. He can wait, for his father to cough out what he means to.

After all, it is for the King, not the Prince, to speak first when they are on even ground like this. He can wait. After all, this Prince is so very humble now.

Finally: "How are you?"

So, whatever it is must be serious. He shrugs. "Well enough, Your Grace."

"Ah, bugger it!" The King swats the table. "Dammit, Rick. Don't call me that."

"What you prefer me to call you, sire?"

His father starts to speak, but stops when he looks at him, his son, and sees that instead of being mocking, he is quite serious. It makes him pause, and think hard. Because, of course, this son of his has never called him anything else other than Your Grace.

"Call me… call me…"

"If I might, what did you call a King before you were one?"

The King looks at him again, and must at least believe he is being serious. "I'd prefer you call me what I called my father, before I was one."

"Which was?"

He'd expected his father's temper to burst at that but instead he just stares right at him, all of him, perhaps even through him, and says, "You look like him."

"What?"

"Or at least I think you do. How I remember him, at least, that's how you look, Dick."

This catches him off guard. Watching his father: he looks sadly into his wine, closes his eyes, pinches his nose.

"My grandfather told me the same thing once."

It'd been when he was a squire at the Rock, after a lesson he'd had with the Maester, about the recent history of House Baratheon and House Lannister. Where he discovered that his grandfathers, the dead Lord Steffon and the very much alive Lord Tywin, were friends. He'd gone to his living grandfather afterwards to ask him about it, and they sat for a good hour talking of the long dead Steffon Baratheon, how he had been as a squire, how he was made Lord of the Stormlands at fourteen, once his father, Lord Ormund Baratheon, was struck down in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Their talk had been long and thoughtful: it was how Rickard felt he was finally begging to know his grandfather, when he casually slipped in: 'You are very much a portrait of Steffon, Rickard. In many ways.' His voice as though it were the finest compliment.

But that was long ago. And now he is sitting here, with the son of the man whom he resembles. His face mournful.

"He would have."

He, Rickard, says nothing.

"I remember the first time my father took me to court. Stannis came with us." He says his brother's name bitterly. Sore point there, he thinks. Best not mention it. "I had to hold his hand. I should have been five, six?" He asks the question directly to him, but what answer is there for him to give? He wasn't there.

"Which would have made that ungrateful swine three, or maybe five?"

He waits.

"When we saw the King, afterward we agreed that the king had been as noble and fearsome as… as…" He wants to suggest dragon, but he must still be humbly waiting. Anyway, that might distract him, set him off against the Targaryens.

"Years later, our father told us that Aerys had cut himself on the throne that morning, so his Hand had taken his place. It was that bastard grandfather of yours, who'd impressed me."

And?

He lets his father go on. Stumbling his way through their conversation, through his cups.

"He was a better father than man. Would have been a better King. A better father."

Which one? Tywin or Steffon? Surely not Aerys. Or some other party he's speaking to the air of?

"And so… well…" The King looks at him again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dick."

He nods. How touching, Your Grace.

Part of him wants to shrug. Part of him just wants to walk away, wash his hands of this. And part of him wants to take back that poker and ram it down his father's throat.

"I can't go on this way. It's killing me."

He thinks, you're killing yourself. With all your whores, all of that drinking you do, your continuous eating, with even that very wine cup in your hand. And then what? Across Westeros, people are having this conversation. The King often had it with Jon Arryn, his brother Stannis. He, his son, has had it many a time with Ty, with Harry, with Willas Tyrell, even with his living grandfather.

Suppose the King does dies. Suppose that he comes off his horse one day, and the fatal should happen? Suppose while he out hunting, the worst shall happen? Say what you would of Aerys Targaryen, the gods gave him a son that he was happy with and that men would follow. But what became of the realm when Rhaegar fell? The sharp knives came to cut up the Conqueror's legacy, carve up the Seven Kingdoms.

Joffrey is a child of ten-and-seven, who everyone is waiting to grow up. He'd hold the realm as long as he's willing to do what he's told. But he will grow up eventually, and be damned if any man will tell him what he must do. Myrcella? A girl: a woman on the Iron Throne goes against the will of the Seven. And Tommen is Tommen, not even ten. A child cannot hold the Kingdom. Not when you have a beggar in Pentos, going out on the streets to find anyone fool enough to grant him his heart's desire.

So, who is left? Me, your grace, who you so despise. Who half of Westeros thinks is in his grandfather's pocket, and the other see him as a new Blackfyre. Except those who sealed his Charter, but you can't hold Westeros with the luke warm support of less than half of the four southern kingdoms. Anyway, nothing to do about it for the nonce but pray.

The King looks at him, half looking sorry, half looking expectant. "Well?"

"'Well', sire?"

His Grace flinches at the curtsy. Then he frowns and leans forward. "Well? Aren't you going to say something?"

"No."

Robert looks confused and then, what a miracle, puts down his wine. "No? You… You're… What?!" He really cannot believe this.

The Princeling raises his hands, and shrugs. "What? What did expect me to… No, what did you want me to say? Really, I'd like to know." His father only sits there dumbfounded. "Did you want this to be some kind reconciliation? To which your only olive branch was 'sorry'? What a fucking waste of time." He stands, tears off the bandages and shows off his begotten digit. "You cut off my damn finger! Accused me of murder, which now half the court will. Sorry isn't about to do it, squire." His fathers on his feet now, colour rising in his face. "You want forgiveness, do what I do: Go see a Septon. Better yet, do what you always do: See a whore." Then he turns to walk out.

"Don't turn you back on me!"

So, he doesn't, he turns and bows, throws down his gauntlet, and says, "Or what?"

The King readily starts to storm over, but he sees his sons face resolute, and he falters. He cries out, almost desperate, "I'm still your bloody father!"

"So you are." He says, and walks out, mumbling, "Only when it suits you."

* * *

Days go by.

They're long, and stressful. Planning their drive North, which against all advice he is still going on. Not that he doesn't understand the arguments why, in fact he sympathizes with them. But it's any excuse to get out of King's Landing. You spend too long in the same, stinking city, any reason to get out is a good excuse. So tomorrow they're away.

But tonight, he's restless. It's late. Harry and Ty have snuck out hours ago, a final trip around their local hotspots. Had he known he'd have no easy rest he'd have gone too. But instead Rickard elected to stay behind, in his room. Bored.

He's on his balcony, large enough for a few chairs and a small table. It's chilly, the breeze cutting through his night clothes and even bear pelt dressing gown so he's brought furs out thrown them over his bare legs, even dragged out a brazier and lit it. On the table, his first book lies forgotten.

 _The Rogue Prince, or, A King's Brother._ A study of the life of Prince Daemon Targaryen.

In truth, he's a bad reader, in the sense that new books like this rarely take his fancy, and he always ends setting them down for a more familiar one. Tonight, he's taken back up is copy of _the Seven-Pointed Star_. To him, this copy is sacred: bound in cloth-of-silver, the star on the front has tiny gems pressed on top of the star points, inside the writing is gilded, golden and in High Valyrian. It's one of the copies which Baelor the Blessed translated into the Dragon tongue himself. Admittingly, he's not always been strictly able to read the words inscribed onto the pages, when the book first came into his possession, he'd flick through pages just to admire the gilding and the art. Still, now he can read it and he has greater admiration for it. High Valyrian has a certain beauty in makeup of its words, how they form a language into something poetic.

This is his guilty pleasure: his moral refuge, from this city of sinners, and palace of liars. Even the Royal Sept, even Baelor's Great Sept, he cannot find this kind of shelter. Still, he can't enjoy it, not right now, with a servant walking out on to his balcony.

She's baring a tray, upon which is a goblet. Before she can lay it upon his table, he rises, protesting. "Forgive me. I didn't ask for anything."

But still she puts it down anyway, answering, "A gift. From an admirer."

"A gift…" He starts, but his voice catches when he looks at her and recognises the voice, and her eyes: those dark, beady viper eyes, threatening, amused. "Ari." He reaches out a hand to touch face. Then he pulls back, his fingers smudge with white. She's painted herself to look paler. A disguise. A good one. Anyone else might not have known her.

"I thought I'd give you a visit. Seeing as though you will be off tomorrow, and I will be staying here." She tells him, answering the question written on his face.

He recovers himself quickly. "You are the emissary from Dorne. It is within your right to go where the court is."

"And the court is remaining in King's Landing, Rick. As you well know. His Grace has dubbed this a private matter."

He snorts. "Oh yes. Very private, with all of Westeros watching for what will happen."

"Please," she says, grasping his arm, "you needn't tell me what I already know. You're not with Harry now. Speaking of whom, where are he and your coz?"

He smiles, enjoying her touch through his bear skin dressing gown. "Out. The Wolf's Den inn. A favourite of theirs."

"And yours?" She says, a twinkle in those deadly eyes.

He laughs, low and throaty. "Have you not heard, Princess? I have no favourite den of vice, for I visit too many to tell them apart." It's more tempting to admit, that sometimes he feels like giving into these rumours and lies, make truth out of untruth. Nevertheless, he resists, as the Mother wishes him to resist all temptation.

Arianne is grinning. His amused face stares back.

"Come inside," He motions, after a shiver runs through her. "I'll bring in the brazier. And you can wash this paint off." To emphasise he runs a thumb across her check, taking more of her disguise off.

He bundles his sleeves up to watch his hands against the hot metal, and pulls the iron and burning fuel inside slightly barring the door of his balcony, so the smoke might escape and not clog the air. But soot gets caught in the fur, spitting from the disturbed flames, and the hot iron still burns his night clothes. Arianne, wiping her face clean sees this and protest and bemoans the loss of good fur, as he discards it across the room.

"I have others. Or if I wish, I could have a new one by morning." He says, smiling.

Yet Arianne chides him, smirking, "What it is, to be a Prince."

He cocks his head, narrows his eyes, "Gods forgive me. I should have realised I was within the presence of a Princess of Dorne, the humblest of creatures." Before adding a bow to her, and turning away to fetch his books and pipe.

On his return, Arianne is laid across his bed, her face clear and staring at the ceiling; her hair spread out in curls across his sheets, snaking their way over his furs and pillows; one leg is crossed over the other, drawing shapes in the air with her foot.

It makes him stop, and curse.

She hears him, and she stares.

"Rick."

His fingers flex around the Seven-Pointed Star. All he can think to do is start praying in his head. But even there the words are a gibberish fumble of begging for mercy and deliverance; of sworn oaths and honest pleas; and, Seven help him, her only reply is to say his name again.

"Rick."

Even now, she is an enigma to him. Her face is a work of fiction: true and honest; but the truth is rarely pure. So, yet she is a lie, an exaggeration of herself. The uncertainty of which is held like a knife to his throat.

"Rick."

But, therein–

"For Godssake, Rick! You're on fire!"

And – by God – so he is.

"FUCK!"

The wind has come in from the window, and blown his night shirt into the brazier, where the flames licked at him and caught his sleeve. Its over in a few seconds: he shits himself, he jumps six feet away, shouts and balls and curses, pulls the godforsaken thing off of him, before he's beating out the flames with his hands. Again, it's all over quickly. And then he's rolling on the floor, groaning, clutching his chest, his forehead pressed to the floor, his shattered ribs screaming at him.

"Rickard. Rickard, what's wrong?"

His breaths come in slow and deep and soul shuddering in their shaken and hollow forms drawing in and out. He hears Arianne. Her own voice breaking into concern. By his side, her hand stroking his back, voice soothing.

"Nothing. Fine, fine. Just chest… winded… from the…" Gods but it hurts.

"Calm down, sweetling. Shh. You're holding your breath, let it out now." He does. "Now, take another one, come on." Arianne, God bless her, takes it with him. "Hold it now. Hold. Now let it go, and breathe even." Her hand rubs circles across his back, one circle: one breath. "Feeling dizzy? Here, sit up. Slowly." By the time he's even on the floor, he's even more dizzy and things are blurring for a moment. "Breathe easy, sweetling. Shh. Don't speak, just breathe." Remarkable, her transformation from seductress to nursemaid.

She has a hand on his cheek as well, knuckles brushing the line where his beard had been growing before she had sheared him of it. "I think I prefer you with the beard, darling. Makes you look older than you are. Without it you look no older your brother. Still, I'm surprised you let me take it off for you. You know I'd never held a razor before you offered it me?" His breathing returns to regular, head stops spinning, he can see straight again. See how the distance has shrunk between them both: Prince and Princess. "You really ought to have asked, but then you can be a foolish boy sometimes."

"Man." He coughs out. "I'm no boy."

"No." She says, one hand slipping from his cheek to his neck, where she can feel the humming in his throat as he draws her fingertips over his skin, while her other hand slips from his back to his chest, where she can feel the beating of his hear through his broken bones. "I suppose you're not."

"Did you plan this?"

"Of a sort. But I'd be lying if I said I expected nothing from you. Though I'm more interested in what you expect of me."

He smirks, stiffens, resolute, "I expect nothing from you, Arianne. Men who expect anything from a woman are pigs. Women are gifts, treasures. Who have to agree to share themselves." He goes on in his own way, but she backs off, her head tilts and looks at him as though he's just started opening his veins. Eventually, he stops and looks at her, says, "What is it?"

She pauses, still and silent as a fallen leaf, her tongue teases itself out of her mouth, rubs across her lip, thinking. "I think I love you."

"What?"

Between them they both lean in, but through no fault of his own, he pulls back sharply, wincing, cursing, apologising. But she smiles at him. "Perhaps I should lead, sweetling. Just this once."

"Just this once," he whispers to her, before she slips herself onto him.

At the Great Sept of Baelor, Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Warden of the East and Lord Paramount of the Vale, lies on a marble slab; funeral stones pressed onto his eyelids, to seal them closed in the realm of the living forever. He waits to be taken down beneath the Sept to the catacombs beneath, which harbour the bones of all the Kings and all the High Septons and dozens of the great men of the Realm since the Conquest. At the Red Keep, Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell lies naked on a ruined bear fur dressing gown, beside a smouldering brazier, her eyes on her new lover. Only her restless fingers move; she has them in her lover's hair, giving him a small braid by which to remember him by on his travels, twisting it into his long, curling hair. She does not leave until the brazier is cold.

* * *

It's the morning, and we're off to Winterfell – a train two thousand strong, stretched from the Red Keep, through the cobbled and paved streets of King's Landing to Dragon Gate; from Dragon Gate, across the green fields of the Crownlands passed Stokeworth. Their progress is slow and terrible, for the Queen has brought a carriage for the journey, which might look more at home on the Blackwater flying a dozen sails, than being dragged along by a fleet of ill-tempered horses and mules. And certain people are grumbling about the sizes of the entourages they must keep to.

The King has brought two hundred of his own men, excluding his own cooks, his bed servants, his kennel masters, his hounds, his falcons, his musicians, his Kingsguards and a few of his favourite whores, who go with the camp followers. The Princes have fifty men each, but only he, Rickard, has men who are his own, or at least paid by him. Tommen and Joffrey's are their Mothers men, who is allowed scant one hundred men. A High Lord is allowed forty men, to a Lower Lord thirty, while a knight must scrape by with twenty, including his squires.

His Grace is both giddy with excitement to see his old friend Ned and furiously bad tempered with their lack of progress after half a day. The two friends will not have seen each other since the war we now call the Greyjoy Rebellion, where both these titans of the last war fell upon Pyke like a torrent and almost drowned King Balon in the blood of his own sons. For this, Robert wants this to be all the greater meeting, all the grander, but he's uneasy about the specifics of the occasion.

It's said that the King offered Lord Stark to be his Hand before, back when they were still fighting in their own Rebellion. But the two fell out with one another after the King's Landing was taken. So, Jon Arryn was summoned to piece Robert's Kingdom together. But stories like this come and go and come again, sometimes the truth leaves with them.

Either way, he keeps his distance from the King, sometimes lagging. Harry and Ty keep with him, sometimes lagging themselves. They both know somethings off with him, the way a grin will tug at his face while he stares blankly into his horse's head, before setting off to a canter, or the way he'll stop suddenly and stare dead ahead, his face moved to frown.

He can hear Arianne whispering in his ear. "They fear for you, my love. They revolve around you; their fates are shackled to yours. You must forgive them their worry, for they love you."

That makes him stop again. His thoughts often turn to Arianne at times like these, when he's plain bored or thinking too hard. But in this way, never has she spoken to him, or has he felt he could hear her voice. Nor has it been this constant, as if she were riding behind him, between Tyrek and Harrold.

"Something wrong, Rick?" Ty asks.

"Fine."

"Nothing wrong with Thunderer?" Harry says, pulling alongside the old war horse.

"No." Thunderer is his first real horse, and still with him after all the years since he first put his feet in the spurs. A powerful, great stallion once upon a time, yet now he's grown past his time, and now the horse has become older these few years, past his prime, no longer suited to thundering up and down the lists at a man or carrying itself and a rider across a battlefield, but the Prince's attachment to the Old War Horse compels him to keep the beast around: Even if it does bite and kick at any poor soul unfortunate enough to get on its wrong side.

"You sure?" Harry presses him. "Chest still holding up?"

"Yes, I'm sure." He lies, given that every bump and knock on the road or every sudden move by Thunderer sends a tremendous shock of pain through his knacked ribs.

They let the issue lie there, Ty and Harry, but they don't forget it, and the worry still hangs in between the three of them, and it's still there by the time the King decrees the column halts and break for camp.

His Grace is moaning and complaining of how poor their progression across the Crownlands has been, and everyone in half a mile can hear him doing it. So: they camp further away, on the fringes of the royal procession. They build a fire, a huge one, big enough to seat a hundred of his men around, but by the time they cut down enough wood it's too late for them to hunt themselves, so they resolve to get drunk. Camp followers, lesser knights from the guard, men-at-arms are drawn to their bonfire like moths to a flame. Some of them bring more wine, and beer, and ale, and they dance around the fire with music playing, from lutes and drums and pipes, and the whole the becomes quite debauched. In the end, he loses sight of Tyrek, lost to whichever girl ensnared his fancies; Harry he can't seem not to see, surrounding himself with more and more women, one on each knee, on his lap, one wrapped round his neck. Still, he seems to enjoy himself. Meanwhile, their Prince is leading the singing and dancing round the fire, loosing himself in drink enough not to feel his aching ribs anymore. It goes on long into the night, long enough or loud enough for either the King or Queen to turn out the guards on them, but by then he's been ditched back in his tent, blacked out from the wine. Smiling to himself, a mumbling the same word over and over again: "Arianne."


	7. GOT: Tyrek 2

**Tyrek**

Tyrek sighed through his nose, and the crowd roared. They were stamping the feet, hooting and roaring at the seen before them. Men were calling out bets and wagers and the name of their champion, throwing money into the air as it slipped from their sweaty grasps. He just shook his head, and leaned further into his tree, watching his cousin.

Rickard was sidestepping in a circle, keeping face with his opponent, who mirrored his movement, both with fists raised out in front of them, knuckles some what bruised and bloody. The Prince had called for this brawl as the quickest and most painful means of blowing off steam, and these days he seemed to have a fair amount of steam worked up. Each day, as they progressed a long their slow, debauched trek to Winterfell, across the Riverlands, a new offence rode on Rick's back to work him into a horrible temper, not that his temper had particularly cool since they'd left King's Landing anyway.

Today, it had once more been his mother, who stoked the Prince into a new fury, by lecturing over the day befores pass time, which had been a knife throwing contest, which had turned into a hatchet throwing contests, and had escalated more and more, before luring in the Prince's younger brother, Tommen. Naturally the Queen flew into a fury when she'd heard of the gambling and dangerous things been thrown about on the edge of the camp, particular when she heard at times their targets consisted of the space between some drunk fool's ring finger and his smallest. Especially when she saw the arrows that had been launched into her own carriage.

So, today had decide some bare-knuckle brawling was in order. And he'd already disposed of three camp followers who thought they could take on the Princely Brat, not to mention dusted off Harry Arryn with a bloody nose and lip, and one of his father's guards, who was bound to go and turn them all in once his head stopped spinning.

There was another softer cry from the crowd, as Rick lunged forward with his fist once more, only to pull it back, and his latest match – a knight from Darry, that had decided to join them from there – flinch and almost stumble backwards over his own feet. The on lookers laughed, the knight blushed then stayed red from rage. Ty watched his cousin grin, knowing that things were now over.

He dusted off his cousins feathered hat, which he held for him, and began to circle the on lookers holding it out for the owed bets. Harry, who was sat keeping the book of wages tended to, looked up at him, cloth rammed up one of his nostrils to hem the bleeding. "What, Ty? 'hey've not finish ish yet?"

Tyrek just grinned and pointed. The Darry knight swung for Rick, who cough the hook one his left arm, and swung into his opposites ribs with his right, then again at the should, and began to pound in on the Knight's left side. He grunted from the onslaught, tried to back off, and brought his other hand up try and grab at Rickard's fist laying into him, but with this the Prince then slipped his blocking arm past the other's fist and smashed his open palm against the side of his head, which seemed to knock the offender through a loop and he now began to buckle at the knees. Rickard finally drew back his hand a few inches, balling it into a fist, and stuck out in a firm jab.

For the quick ending, Rik had obviously misjudged his aim on the last strike, catching jaw bone and not cheek, as once his opponent was being pulled off the ground, he held his left knuckles and started to shake them out. Tyrek just rolled his eyes for the moment and then continued his collection of the owed money.

"Ish neber a weal conteshed when he'sh fighting, ish it?" Harry grumbled to Ty, noticing the low earning as he checked the collected money.

"Still, I'd have thought that they'd have learned long before we crossed the Trident. Rickard is invincible."

He's not. Not really. Not in the conventional sense, at least. You may beat at one thing, but never another thing. And even if you do he'll return, again, and again, and again, until he has you trampled underfoot. It's a curious defect in him, that he hardly knows a lost match when you present him with one.

Regardless, nobody else seemed willing to take the Prince on anymore, which meant, owing to his hurting knuckles he could bow out, his rage tempered, and leave anyone else to knock seven bells out of one another.

Ty held out a bandage for Rick as approached, which he promptly wrapped around his offending fist, and spat a large gob of blood on the grass. "Bit my cheek. Fuck sake. During the last, when he clobbered me."

"Could be worsh, Wick." Harry said, writing down the new bets as people started passing him notes and whispering in his ear, as two new contenders went at it. "Think I shaw him shpitting teef out."

His Prince scoffed, "I barely tapped him. Think he did more damage to me." He insisted, once more rubbing his knuckles.

"Nothing a drink won't fix," he, Tyrek, says offering a wineskin.

"Gods, you know I hate wine." Complains Rick between swings.

"We ran out of beer and mead. And you never take water after a fight unless its serious."

"How well you know me." Laughs his coz, grasping his shoulder. "Which means?" Holding up the other hand, expectantly. Again, Ty rolls his eyes and hand over the purse. "Not bad. You'd have thought I might be able to earn a living off my wagers. Gods, but that bastard at the Treasury still sees fit to humble my wealth."

You might yet live off it, Rick, he thinks later, watching the Prince lose money which he both can and cannot afford to lose in more and more matches. Not that he should have to worry about his money, yet Rick is always seemingly punished by having his allowances swallowed up by his contribution to the maintenance of his own household, their boarding in the Red Keep, as well pay for his own guards and servants, and their fines, which, whenever they sneak out the Red Keep at night to get blind, steaming drunk, can be quite expensive.

Rik sinks half a wineskin and loses three in a row before he starts becoming restless once more, yet luckily enough a distraction is here for him: cousin Lancel, pressed into his finest squire doublet, is coming for them looking perturbed and annoyed at having to associate once more with his degenerate cousins. Both of their eyes light up, a smile tugging the corner of Rik's mouth, and they both stride forward to the lad, who is immediately thrown off by the enthusiasm that greets them.

The Prince grips Lancel with both arms and lifts him into the air, while the former squeaks and swats at him to leave him be.

"By the Gods, sweet Lancel, you venomous little reptile, how well it is to see you here amongst the arse of our little entourage." The Prince says, placing the squire back on the floor, who hurriedly straightens his attire, re-flattens his hat.

He, smirking at Lancel coyly, tells Rickard, "Come now, Black Eye," recycling the old name the squires of the Rock called Rik, first derogatory, when Lancel himself had come up with it, but then affectionately once he'd made the name his own, "you ought to know that old Shitfingers here is too above us now for this to be social."

"Quite right, Bullseye."

And then to Lancel, "Come on, Shitfingers, what you after?"

"Well," Lancel says, gritting horrendously at the use of the name he thought he'd outgrown and spitting venom with every syllable, "Her Grace, the Queen wishes to see in the royal carriage. The _Orphan_ here," he gestures at he, Tyrek, "is not permitted to go with you. It's supposed to be a private conversation."

A nerve jumps in Rik's cheek. "Private? Really? So no doubt you'll be escorting back to my mother. Well that doesn't sound very private to me, so I'm sure you won't begrudge poor Tyrek here the chance to ensure my safety. But then if you feel you do so much on your, feel free to prove to some of the lads here."

To prove the point, he gestures to where the matches are still being fought and Harry still taking on the bets. Lancel just rolls his eyes and struts away, leaving them to follow in his footsteps, which are far to big for his boots.

When they finally reach the tent, Preston Greenfield and Meryn Trent are there to ensure Rik enters alone. They fall in behind him, one at each soldier, as if he were on his way to the gallows, the Prince himself looking naked without a means to defend himself against the fully armed and armoured white knights. They are left alone, together: Lancel and Tyrek; cousin and cousin; Shitfingers and Orphan. The latter are the names are the ones which irk each of them the most. Lancel, for the humiliation the memory brings him, and for himself, the fact that his father, Tygett Lannister is long dead, and his mother driven into madness for the longest time, shut away in her father's castle and never heard from again.

They eye each other up.

If Lancel can be described as anything it is much like what he is to Rickard, only he is split between three different masters, for whom he must act as dogsbody equal to each: his coz, Cersei; his master, the King; and their son, Joffrey. He has no doubt which prince he would rather serve, not least because he and Rik have been tied at the ankle since they were boys.

Its from Lancel that Joffrey learns all there is to know about Rik, much the same can be said for the Queen too. The King's squire will learn what he can from the other squire, the gossipers at court, the places where neither prince nor queen cannot go, even from Rickard himself, when he fancies the need to annoy or mislead either one of them, or lacking that, it is himself who will spin the lie on Rik's behalf.

Finally, Lancel says, "It must be a disappointment to you. This business."

Bemused, he rolls his eyes and turns toward his fellow squire. "What business would this be then?" He sees the trepidation mould itself onto Lancel's face, before adding. "Unless you feel you can't part with the information, coz."

Shitfinger smiles. "I may as well, seeing as though there are no secrets but one between the two of you."

"Do tell."

Smiles turns to an unsettling grin. "I shall tell only this: that you'll be rather pleased once he comes out of that tent."

"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Her Grace know about his meetings with the Dornish woman. His plans to ally them with his own people over this treaty of yours, which if I might add was reckless on your part, allowing him to do it."

"How so? Should a Prince not help his people, even to his own cost? Don't answer I know what you think. The way you serve that other creature is good enough for me. And as for the Princess, what of it? A meeting of two of their rank, has to be among the worst kept secrets in King's Landing. Not to mention all the times they've been acquaintances before this Charter business. Well done, old boy, your spy craft is by far excellent, I'm surprised this passes as news to anyone, really."

"Oh, that much is obvious. I was more talking about their courting."

"Courting," he scoffs, "don't talk rubbish. The only talk of courting between them is how best to squeeze Highgarden into their ranks."

"'Their's', Ty. Not 'ours'. Anyway of course that is what the Queen thinks, given what her other spies tell her. About meeting within the Sept with her every night, their late-night dinners with one another, sneaking away into dark corners to meet."

He has excuses for them all, they come natural with such a life he must lead. "He's always been one for the Gods, has Rick, and should she not be a good woman of Faith, as all women should be? Dinner is a good place to talk stratagem as any. And where would you and these other spies find work if we all shouted our conspiracy from the walls of Maegor's?"

"Still, I don't believe it myself. I think something else entirely, yet Her Grace refuses to acknowledge the possibility. Suddenly she sees only the best in him regardless of what I say."

"Sensible woman." He states.

But then, nonchalantly, Lancel says to him, "You don't happen to know how many times he's ploughed her?"

The words slap him in the head. He splutters out rebuts, yet they're a jumble mess between the disparaging remarks of Lancel against his Prince and the Princess.

"This Dornish Princess, you know how she dresses, I bet her father had her trained up as a whore you know, and that's why she came here. To fuck herself into King's Landing and snatch the kingdom away with her cunt. Not that Rik could resist, mind you. Sneak out into the city with you, Harry and the rest of those dogs at court. I'd be surprised if he hasn't already knocked the bitch up. He can put her in that house by the River Gate with the rest of his rotten brood."

Finally, he snaps, bursts out. "That's Harry's bastard."

"Sure," sneers Lancel, "Still, the Queen will have them broken apart whatever the case. Which as I said is good for you, no more competition. For I can see how the jealousy bites at you. Mayhap now Rickard will be ploughing you before long, as you'd prefer."

"I've no idea… what… you…"

"I know, Ty. I do know."

Tyrek's mind clears in an instant. A citric, blinding fury, bubbling from his gut. It shakes his fists, turns his serene face brick red. A kind of rage that could cow Rickard and Robert Baratheon, both.

"Rik… I… How… Never…"

"Then there'll be no more need for you to tug away at yourself all night thinking of him. No need to be dragging dark haired boys back to your tent at night, h-hrrrkkk!"

It's the suddenness of his rage bursting out of him that makes his body act of his own accord, makes him see black as he grabs Lancel by the throat, slam him against one of the giant wheels of the Royal Wheelhouse. Only the vibrations shaking them both and the entire carriage reawaken his conscious mind, and he falls back away from him, retreats, hangs his in shame.

Then Lancel is laughing, blood seeping from his nose. "You see, Orphan. I know things that you don't even know about yourself."

Of course, now he sees the ruse. All along, Lancel hadn't given a fig about Rik and the Martell girl. His suspicions, if they exist, are not so profound or provable. This had been for him, to draw him out, cut out the heart and soul of him, to lay it bare across the floor for them both to stare at.

He says nothing. Not to Lancel. Not to Rick, when he finally emerges. Not as Rik plays back in full the words exchanged between mother and son. Not when he repeats the whole story to Harry later. Not when Harry stumbles to offer assurance that the Dornish are no great loss. Not a word.

Only when Harry and Rik's pleading eyes both move him to speak, he says, "We cannot surrender this. We cannot give in. For the sake of the Charter we must go on whatever."

Rickard rises and grasps Tyrek. "Thank you, of course. We shall neither flag nor fail, not when the cause is just." And finally, he turns himself around, releases him and says, "Lancle shook you up too then, obviously. What was it?"

"Lancel?" He questions. "Lancel… Lancel…" Lancel has ruined me, has the power to destroy me, or to have you destroy me. He has laid my only secret bare. The one and only secret that must always be kept no matter the cost. No matter what it may do to me. "Lancel is dangerous. More than we ever knew him to be. If we could, I'd have him dead." This horrifies all of them. It means that now Lancel is the most dangerous person in all Seven Kingdoms to them, to the cause. Their motto has always been: Without violence. Now they may have to compromise this, and whatever animosity Rickard and Lancel have had since they were boys at the Rock, it has hardly been murderous. He's never know murder to solve anything, but for Tyrek of all people to say this, while it may not sway him, it may mean his hand is forced.

"What could he possibly know?"

He thinks, says, "He knows… or has suspicions about, yourself… and well, the Princess… that you, well… you're not, are you?"

But, of course, he no longer needs an answer. He can see in the subtle change of his face, the ease of his grip, the slight recoil of his body, written all over his body. And then comes the greatest insult Rickard has ever given him. "No, of course not. Arianne and I are friends, and close I admit, but… not…"

What is she, Rickard? He wants to ask. What does she do for you, what solace does she grant you, to betray me so. I, who have always been with you, your own first man and friend, the one who consoled you as a lonely boy at the Rock, who wept into my shoulder whimpering for his mother. The one with whom you conquered every obstacle, who always said the no cliff was too high to jump from, who has always sworn his bow and sword to you. What is this Dornish whore? Why not I, Rickard? Why not?

In the end, Rick asks to be left alone. To consider the next call of action. They leave whatever pipe weed they have for him to smike alone beneath a tree and ponder, this suits him fine. He goes alone, through the camp, searching. And needs to get away from Rickard now, maybe forever. No, not forever. That would be too painful.

He finds the tent he's looking for. No need to be dragging dark haired boys back to your tent, Lancel had said. And sure enough, the boy himself can be found in his own small cramped tent, bought with the coins Ty had given him. He's surprised to see him, true, but not unhappy to.

"My Lord?" He says, brushing back his dark hair behind his ear. "What would you want of me?"

"Take off your clothes," he commands, "and lie on your front."

The lad is perhaps two, three years his junior. His eyes a mix of green and brown, the wrong colour, which he couldn't bare either. He acquiesces eager enough, wiggling his hips in the air. Tyrek pulls a lace of his tunic loose, all the way, taking it in both hands, loosens his belt for free moving.

Straddled, the boy coos like a dove. Raises his head, bares his neck, so its easy to wrap the lace round it. He jerks sudden, thrashes and panics, but the tightness cutting his flesh so that it weeps blood cuts off his voice and shouting.

When they finished last time, Tyrek had whispered Rickard's name, but now the only thing he says is sorry, but this is secret that must be kept no matter the cost. It must be secret


	8. GOT: Robb 1

**Robb**

"Bollocks," Theon said again.

"Not quite, Theon," Robb tells him, pulling a comb stiffly through his curls, gritting his teeth at the pain as its teeth tear and catch on the knots of his hair, "just what my Mother wants."

"Of course. And whatever Lady Stark wants, Lady Stark shall have." The Ironborn heir goes on, complaining still.

"Naturally," Jon says, reminding him, "she is Lady of Winterfell."

"Still bollocks though."

They both just roll their eyes at him, but then Jon adds, fitting himself into his newest tunic, "Not that I don't agree with Theon mind. Why've we got to clean ourselves up for the King? Surely to Gods he won't much care how _we_ look?"

"Definitely not you, Snow. Doubt he'll see much of you with how far away from him they'll keep. But for me and Robb it'll be for the Queen, I hear Lady Stark has little love for the Queen. Probably doesn't want to show us to show Winterfell up. Especially not to those Princes."

"I hear the Golden Prince is a royal prick." Robb offers, trying to flatten back down his hair.

"Aye," Theon adds, sniggering, "And that Black one is really half fond of using his royal prick."

"How so?"

"He has bastards by all accounts," Theon explains, "Anywhere between one and a dozen depending who you as."

"You sure?" Jon is sceptical, "Thought it was the King with all the bastards."

"Well, you know what they say, like father like son." Theon is laughing at himself, but neither he nor Jon find the adage amusing. Not if what that means for the two Baratheons as it does for the Starks.

"Anyway," he says, spying the sombre look on Jon's face through the looking glass, "We'd better hurry, they'll be here before long. And Father will skin us alive if we're late, especially you, squire Greyjoy."

And then they're away without a word. Each of them pressed into their finest fur, and wool and velvet, lined side by side with the rest of Winterfell, ready to greet the King. Jory Cassell and the honour guard are the first through, lining the Keep's entrance for the royal party. They came streaming through the gates quick enough, a vast ribbon of gold and silver, steel and iron, all polished and shiny despite the harsh road. Above them all flew the sigil of House Baratheon, the black stag, crowned, and on a golden field. On other banners it was married to the Lannister coat of arms: the roaring lion, on its own field of crimson. Of the host brought by King Robert, only three hundred enter the Keep, the others forced to stay outside.

Quietly, so as not to invoke his Mother's wrath for breaking ranks, he and Theon and Jon, forced to stand hidden behind the pair of them, pick out members of the court. Ser Jaime Lannister, hair like molten gold, armoured in golden plate and bearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Sandor Clegane, hideously scared across his face, beside him the Crown Prince, green eyed and golden haired.

Down the line he hears Arya squawking. Where's the Imp?" and Sansa's hurried prayers for her sister to be quiet, but they're both interrupted by the sight of the King, huge and riding a horse near twice as big as Robb had ever seen, yet the beast still seemed to sag beneath the King's weight. In all the stories their father had told them of his friend, King Robert, never had Robb envisioned his namesake to be like this. He'd always thought of King Robert at least half the girth, magnificent in gold and black, the mighty warhammer in hand wielded as another King might wield a sceptre.

Disappointed, they watched the King vault from his horse, land with a thud on his feet, and grasp Lord Eddard in a crushing hug. The two friends laughed and greeted one another as you would expect, before the King drew himself down the line of them, inspecting each Stark individually. He told Sansa her beauty, Bran of how he would be a soldier, before encountering Robb. "The one who bears my name," he said, staring through Robb, almost like his vision could examine the flaws and scars beneath his skin. "Both my boys look like they could learn from you. If you find the need to teach them a lesson, feel free to lay the bruises on thick." He then boomed out with laughter, and thumped Robb approvingly on his chest.

Then he turned to his Father, to see the crypts, and then they left to see the dead. Leaving the rest of them to stand in the cold, yet his mother, Lady Catelyn is quick to strive into action. She bows and welcomes the Queen, and begins ushering the rest of the royal party inside, and ordering her litter about, assigning each of them a duty: Arya and Sansa to show Princess Myrcella where her quarters are to be; Bran to take Prince Tommen with Ser Rodrick to show off Winterfell; Rickon to stay with her and welcome the Queen in the Great Hall; and Robb and Theon to entertain the Black and Golden Princes however they wish to be entertained. With this, the yard is quick to start emptying, leaving the three of them, a prince and his dog.

Prince Joffrey approaches them, sneering, "Well then, you must be Robb Stark." He observes them from down his long nose, before making a sort wiggling movement with his eyebrows, a sign of apparent disapproval, and makes a move to Theon. "And what's this, a Greyjoy? Gods, what they meant by bringing you hear is beyond me. The Kingdom would have been better had they just drowned you like your brothers."

Theon moves to pull his sword, but Sandor Clegane is ahead of him, drawing his knife and pressing it to Theon's cheek. Joffrey smiles and pushes Theon's blade back in place with a finger, only afterward does Clegane take his knife off of Theon's face, taking with it a few hairs of his beard. Finally, the Prince sets his sights on Jon, tutting in disgust.

"And the bastard, I assume. Gods give me strength. You people were royalty once. Gods forbid, that you might ever rise beyond being half peasants again." He goes away, leaving the three of them left there, shaking with rage.

It's Theon who explodes first. "Gods alive! A royal prick? A festering, royal cunt, not as like."

"If he weren't a Prince I'd have flattened him. Who in Seven Hells he thinks he is?" Jon adds.

"Gods help us," he bemoans, "if that one becomes King."

The three of them shudder together at the thought. They're about to follow everyone else inside, but not before there's another load of horse trotting through the gate, all but one led by a blonde-haired rider, another Lannister by his looks, who held the reigns of the other horses in tow. A horse and cart followed them, and Robb paused for a moment looking at it come into the yard. At first look at the carts sorry sate and the even sorrier state of those riding in it, Robb thought it was a plague cart, but the one riding shotgun in it was far from sorry looking from the way he started booming orders.

"Tyrek, gods blood, get the horses tied up! Watch Thunderer, you know his way if you don't give the beast a firm hand! Jason, out! Bugger the horse, he'll stop when you do! Come on back and help me with this lot!" He leapt from the cart and strode round its back, now shouting at its occupants. "Right, you shits! Time to start being human again! Seven Hells, what a bunch rogue and peasant crew I employ!" He goes on, now mounting the cart and dragging people off it. "Oh, sorry, Martyn. How's your head, eh? HOW'S YOUR HEAD?!"

He's tall only by comparison to those he's pulling out the cart, mostly squires and a dwarf. Hair blacker than midnight, beard that's been trimmed short, to hide a handsome face, not indifferent to the King's. And his accent was strange. He might have been a Westerman, but when he shouted in a rage his voice was more like that of a Stormlander. His dress was simple white wool tunic and black leather breeches, but the sword on his hip and the rings and jewels on his fingers were as ornate and fine as Robb had ever seen.

The blonde with the horses spots them standing there and leads his charges over. "Here, give me a hand, will you? Just tie them somewhere."

"The stables, maybe? That's where we tend to keep our horses, Greenlander."

"Whatever. You going to help, or not?"

It's at that point one of the horses starts to mount another, rearing causing some of reigns to slip from the Lannister's grip. The horses start to panic and run. "Stop them!" he's shouting, trying to keep his own mount and the other horses' reigns in hand.

"Grab them," Robb shouts reaching for one of them. Jon and Theon are quick on hand skirting away to be trampled, jumping to catch a set of reigns and pull the animals under control. He himself grabs the amorous stallion, but it's a brutal thing. Kicking and biting at him. And the beast pulls away from him with a greater strength than he can muster, each timing rearing and dropping its hooves to nearly crush him.

"Watch it!" the Lannister's shouting, and then, "Rick, we've lost Thunder!"

Somewhere Robb hears a curse being bellowed, and then another hand starts pulling on the reigns. "Ease off him! Give him slack, let the brute room to tire himself." Then the figure starts whistling at the horse, as Robb sees both Jon and Theon grab at the reigns themselves. "Thunderer! THUNDERER! Heel you bugger." Then he yanked hard at the reigns, at a moment the horse meant to rear again, but his strength was enough to negate the attempt, and the horse began to slow in the violence of his moves, allowing a hand to be reached onto his nose and stroke.

"Ease off, lad." The horse's owner says, and despite clearly addressing his mount the three of them let go of the reigns.

"That beast is rabbid," Theon says, panting with hands holding himself up against his knees.

The fourth of them just laughs, and Robb recognized him as the one who'd been shouting commands from the cart. "Hardly, just an old war horse that never learned to make friends. Thunderer here always makes a devil's work for any stable boy, especially ones he doesn't know. Where are yours by the way?"

"Here, Rick, I'll take him." Offers the Lannister, by now off of his own horse and getting the others squared away at the stables.

Rick surrenders his horse, warning, "Careful this time. He's like as not to hurt someone next time, Ty."

"Yeah," he says, winking, "Me, like as not."

Theon can't take it anymore. "What kind of lunatic keeps a mad, old war horse?"

"A Prince." He answers back. "Rickard, that is." Offering his hand. "Baratheon. Prince Rickard Baratheon."

His father's squire at least has the humility to go flush red and lead them in their curtsy bow. But Rickard waves them off. "Please, don't. If I'd wanted you to bow and scrape the floor for me I'd have come through the gates with the rest of these reprobates." Again, he offers his hand.

Tentatively, Robb takes the Prince's hand. "I am Robb Stark, my Prince."

"Good to meet you, Robb. And call me Rickard, at least when we're like this." He adds a wink, and turns to Theon, offering his hand a second time "And you?"

Theon squares up into himself to look tall and as impressive as he can, and grips the Prince's hand with as firm and friendly a grip as he can manage. "Theon Greyjoy, my lord, heir to Pyke."

A surprised jump appears on the Prince's face which he quickly turns into a look of appreciation. "I hadn't much expected an Ironman. You're the first I've met that seemed worth something, glad to see not all your folk are just pirates. Call me Rickard too, Theon."

Greyjoy seems to look satisfied with what the Prince has to say of him and he eases back into himself looking smug and far too appreciated. Finally, the Prince sees Jon, trying hide in obscurity behind both Theon and himself, but offers his hand regardless. "And you would be?"

"Jon Snow, my prince."

To his credit, the Prince manages to keep back his surprise or revulsion at greeting a bastard. The only give away is a slight closure in his fist, which is soon reopened, without Jon even noticing. Jon just starts to stare at the Prince and then his hand, shocked that its still on offer. When it becomes apparent to the Prince of Jon's uneasy, he wiggles his digits, says, "Is it not bad manners in the North to refuse a Prince's hand?"

Shyly, realizing the hand will not vanish, Jon reaches out his own hand, to shake the Prince's. "It's good to meet you, my lord…prince." Jon's unsure what else to do.

Rickard seems to take an account of Jon, scrutinize him. Eventually, he says, "I've only know two other bastards. One good, the other bad. You might be another good one." Robb notices that he doesn't give Jon permission to call him Rickard. The Prince takes back his hand, looks around. "Fine keep."

"We'd be honoured to show you Winterfell, my Prince." Robb offers, gesturing to inside the castle.

The Prince nods. "Thank you, but first if you'd excuse me, I've got a few cousins of mine to take care of." He turns his back, calling for Tyrek, motioning with his hand to follow, he does the same, talking as they walk toward the cart, and group of sorry looking squires and youths they had lined up against the cart. "You Northerners have any way to sober up a gang of young rogues?" He asks them, smirking.

The one who'd driven the cart stepped forward. "They're sober enough, Rick. How do you want them punished? Flogging? Brandings?"

They were squire, no older than twelve the lot of them at those words, they went from looking forlorn to down right horror struck. But Rickard just chuckled, "No need for that today, I think, Jason. I'd say they've learned to listen to me from now on. Eh, lads? Next time I say no drinking, I mean it. Now go on the lot of you, bugger off."

They did, and Robb, Theon and Jon, just looked querulously at the Prince. "My cousins." He explained, "They're not used to the freedom travel brings. At Lannisport and the Rock they know their limits, but in King's Landing they're bloody terrified of squiring, and up here they want to cause trouble. My fault, I suppose being a bad influence, but I keep an eye on them when I can. Promised my grandfather, and their fathers."

"Good of you, my prince." Robb told him.

A shrug. "Just doing my bit. But still," he says, climbing onto the cart, "I've another beast for you to wrangle with if you're all up for it." They followed the Prince to the cart, were he revealed another squire. This one was far older, more of their own age, and, Robb thought, another Lannister, until Rickard introduced him. "Meet Harrold Hardyng. Biggest arse this side of the Neck." He was dead to the world, may well have been dead in truth, had it not been for the slight sway in a lank of hair that fell over one of his nostrils. And more than looking dead, he was a truly sorry looking sight: there was bits of sick which were littered through his sandy coloured hair; and a sling of various stains slobbered across his garbs; his mouth seemed sealed over by a strange crust, again superseded by another large brown stain which covered his mouth and all of his stubble; finally, he gave off a strange smell of beer, bad wine and horse sweat.

"He's been like this since dawn, apparently," the Prince informed them, "And we've done our best to wake him since then. He'll need to be for tonight's feast. Care to give us a hand?"

Sniggering, Robb says, "A bucket of water would do it. Tried it?"

"No," admitted Rickard, "we were short on water in this final stretch of the journey. We tried a weak wine, but he only seemed to enjoy the splashing in his sleep. Anything stronger and I reckoned he'd just puke his guts up all over the place."

Jon fetches a bucket with water from a horse's trough. He goes to throw it on Hardyng immediately, but Tyrek Lannister warns him stop. "Aye," his colleague, the Prince, agrees, "Get him off the cart first, and spread him out. Alright, now give me the bucket. Good. Now, back off gimme room. If we're gonna wake him up like that he'll be in as foul a temper as you've ever seen."

They do as his Grace commands and gives them space: The Prince hangs over him, stood on the cart, Harrold on the muddy ground below him. He dumps the whole bucket of shriekingly cold water over the squire, who explodes with rage as soon as the first droplets crash over his dirtied face. He comes alive like an explosion of cursing, sworn bloodied oaths and murderous threats, a dagger even comes out, brandished in wild and sluggish movements: he's still somewhat drunk.

"Bloody, filthy cunts. Goddamned burning twats, I'll pull your kidney out your arses and use the piss-lettes as my cunting boot laces." He clocks his very blue, very un-Lannister eyes on their pack of four and means to make a hack at them with his dagger, but as he rises he falls again, stubbles back into the mud and starts vomiting himself into submission.

"Morning, Harry." Rickard greets from his safe place on the cart. Harry spits whatever is left out his mouth. He turns his head and rolls his eyes as he squints and tries to see his waker.

"Hiiiiii." He manages it eventually, in a voice more like a very ill bunch of frogs ribbiting, as each of their throats was scraped with a piece of sandstone. Rickard does a grin and shakes his head before jumping down from the cart into the mud closer to Harry.

"Can you see much clearer here, Harry?"

"Oooooh. It's you, Rick." Hardyng starts to do a growling kind of laugh. "How about that? It's dear old, Dicky. Help me up." He presents his hand, and Rickard offers his own and pulls his friend to his feet, only to start chewing on his fist from a heavy-handed punch.

Rickard goes reeling, but he's back on Harry before the latter has finished recovering from the follow through of his own punch. It takes only one hit from Rick, a short and sure one into Harry's cheek, for Rick to have him by the collar, before Ty shouts, "Rick! He won't feel it." Then the Prince sees the glazed look in his eyes, and lets him go slumping back into the mud.

"Well I owe him one then." Vows the Prince.


End file.
